


Fritz and Grimm

by RIC (prussia)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dark Comedy, M/M, Marriage, Modern Day, Novel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-10 11:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2023116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussia/pseuds/RIC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a late night visit from Grandpa Rome, Prussia learns he must live an altered life, if he wants to remain on Earth. Taking the advice of a ghost, Prussia decides to make his ensuing years as happy as possible, doing what ‘normal people’ do. To get married, and have children? To work a full time job. How will Prussia manage, with his past as a glorious country always haunting him? His brother helps, but not as much as Prussia’s old ‘friend’ and longtime enemy, Austria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awoke to a Weirdo

**Author's Note:**

> Hetalia Novel starring Prussia. 44 chapters before editing. Written January to July of 2014. I'll post each chapter as soon as I can edit them, and it'll probably be 30-something chapters by the end.
> 
> PruAus is the main ship. GerIta is the only supporting ship. It also includes past-tense pairings, such as AusHun and SpAus, due to Austria's former marriages. Mild debatable GerAus, due to Germany and Austria's ex-cohabitation. Innocent unrequited PruIta, based on Prussia's crush on Italy in canon. A few jokes about France x Germany: nothing serious. And a brief nod to Spamano in a single paragraph. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: There's some religious imagery, due to Prussia's early days as the Teutonic Knights, and an ongoing theme of death (especially in the early chapters).
> 
> But no matter how much it looks like it, at times, I promise you, There is NO major character death.
> 
> As for the M-rating: This is not a smut fic, but there is sexual content. Profanity and foul language, etc., spring up on occasion. 
> 
> If you read this fic, thank you! I do hope you'll enjoy it!!

As if a wind blew into Prussia's bedroom, the door flew open, and in its wake, and on the threshold, stood Grandpa Rome. Wrapped in a plain white toga, holding the door ajar, as the curtains rustled, and the framed picture of Old Fritz, on the wall, shook, nearly falling. The bed sheets were ripped clean from Prussia's body. He lied sleeping through it all. He may have winced, and rolled over, smacking his lips, and sort of smiling, a soft grin, in his dreams...a small boy, still, Teutonic Knights, hunting for prey in the form of Godless countries.

'Pagans must convert, or be tortured!' he'd shout. A ghost now, lurking in Prussia's memory. Buried deep, beneath all the knowledge acquired in the past couple decades. Reading books at the speed of four a day. Always poring over his old diaries. What a life to lead!

"WAKE UP!" shouted Grandpa Rome. The former empire, with a booming voice, but what a comical accent. He gushed a smile, gleaming, bright teeth whiter than the paved streets of Heaven: his home.

Prussia's eyes shot wide, as he sat up in bed. "Who said that?!" he asked.

Reaching over, Prussia fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand -- clicking the switch -- and in the soft light, he spotted the man, standing at the foot of his bed. Huddled in the corner, was Gilbird, Prussia's pet bird, with rumpled feathers.

"You scared my little friend, you Old Italian Gladiator Man," said Prussia.

He rolled out of bed, and crawled towards the bird. Scooping him up, in his hands; Prussia sat, his legs crossed, and he petted and soothed the bird. "Shh, it's all right, Gilbird," he said. He cooed, and talked nonsense. A father consoling his child.

"What do you mean busting into my room, at this time of night?" asked Prussia. He glared at Grandpa Rome, and sulked. "If you're looking for Cute Italy, or the Crying One, I don't think they're here."

Prussia leaned over, and peered beneath his bed. "Nope...not under there."

Grandpa Rome narrowed his gaze, and cast it to the floor. Kneeling down, he, too, peered beneath the bed. "Well, what do you know," he said, and laughed. "You're right!" He stood, and straightened his toga, and placed a hand behind his head, closing his eyes, and flashing an apologetic grin. "I guess I'll be going, then."

Prussia scrambled to his feet, still coddling the bird, and reached out, as if the sheer force of moving his hand would halt the old man. "Wait a sec!" said Prussia. He stepped forward, and scratched his stomach. "Just what did you want in my bedroom, anyway?" he asked. "Usually Cute Italians sleep in my brother's bed."

"Oh, that's right!" said Grandpa Rome, and he turned, raising a finger in the air, as if blessed by a brilliant idea. "I came to tell you something."

His carefree expression waned, as he nodded his head, wrapping his arm around Prussia; walking side-by-side: a fallen empire, and a former country. A scene akin to a man prepared to give his teenage son the sex talk.

Prussia cringed, unnerved by the foreign feel of skin-on-skin after dark, in his bedroom, and for the first time, in his long life, no longer wished for the touch of a good-looking Italian.

"Come here, now," said Grandpa Rome.

He led Prussia to the bed, with his head nuzzled against Prussia's face.

Sitting on the edge, Prussia placed Gilbird to the wrinkled sheets. "You go play," said Prussia. "Us grownups have something very important to discuss."

Gilbird cheeped, and looked up at Prussia, as if questioning him.

"I don't know!" whispered Prussia. "It's big-boy business." He patted Gilbird on the butt. "Now go play, I said!"

Gilbird hopped to Prussia's well-indented, and still-warm pillow, nestling down for a nap, while Rome held Prussia close.

"All right," Rome said. "I have an urgent message for you, from God himself."

Prussia leaned away -- as far as Rome would allow.

"God sent you here?!" Prussia asked. His mouth agape. But then he smirked, and shook his hand, dismissing the statement. "You've got to be kidding me," he said. "If God wanted to talk to me, he'd come here himself. In person!" Prussia laughed. "God and I used to talk all the time!"

Rome lifted his arm from Prussia's neck and shoulders. "I know, but," he stammered, "this isn't the kind of message you want to hear from God." He rose from the bed, and his hands flew in wild gestures. He paced the floor, and rested his chin in his hand, until he stopped, and stood still, placing his hands on his hips, announcing: "You're going to come home with me!"

Prussia scurried to the top of the bed, and over the side, and hid underneath, congregating with dust bunnies, no matter how few. They were there, and they were soft; Prussia knew; he cuddled with them, as tears formed in his eyes.

"RIGHT NOW?! TONIGHT?!!" Prussia sobbed. "But I...I don't want to go!!"

He curled into a ball, and Gilbird awoke, sensing a sad Prussian in his presence. The bird lit from the pillow, and onto the floor, pitter-pattered beneath the bed, to Prussia, in the darkness of the small space. He kissed his friend's cheek, or maybe he pecked it. Prussia didn't care. He kissed the bird's head, to return the affection, and continued killing dust bunnies, no matter how few, with his tears.

"I'm sorry dust bunnies," Prussia said. He rubbed the wet floor, and the gray, matted mess. "Now they're all soggy, and sad!!"

"Would you get out from there?!" said Rome. He crossed the room, and bent down, fishing around, until he found Prussia's legs; grabbing tight, he yanked him out, leaving Prussia to lie face-down at Rome's feet.

Prussia kicked, and writhed, and wiggled back between the confines of the bed frame and the wooden floor.

"You come out, this instant!" said Rome. "Is this any way for a country to act?!"

"Former Country!" said Prussia.

He couldn't believe those horrid words had escaped his mouth. For the first time, since the unification with his little brother, West, Prussia had uttered the unimaginable phrase, forbidden to be spoken by anyone in his wake. But now...now...somehow it seemed relevant. For some reason, Prussia thought it might help. Save him. Make a case for him. Yes, your honor, this man is Prussia, but he's a former country, so lay off him, yeah? Be nice to him, and kind to him, and please, God, no, don't take him home to Heaven. For whatever reason, he's not ready yet!!


	2. Iron Cross Albatross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reference to the poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 
> 
> "Instead of the cross, the Albatross, about my neck was hung."

Looming at Prussia's bedside, Grandpa Rome waved his hand, as if casting a spell: unbeknownst to Prussia, whose eyes were filled with tears and dust; still hiding beneath the bed.

"You better not be doing anything weird," said Prussia, as he shivered, sensing an odd chill in the air. The floor shook beneath him, and a light shone from the edges of the bed frame and the mattress's shadow. Permeating the darkness, with an orange-gold glow. A treasure chest opened in a cave.

The canary in a coal mine -- existing to alert mankind of the dangers in a bleak confinement -- Gilbird chirped, as he plucked at Prussia's hair, hopping backwards, convinced he was strong enough to pull Prussia from his hiding place. The safety of his wallless cage.

'But you've gotta see what this Old Guy is doing!' he seemed to cheep.

Prussia shot a glance of agreement, and wriggled out from beneath the bed, just far enough to peek his head, glaring up at the Old Italian Gladiator Man. Grandpa Rome, the well-aged adonis, with his eyes half shut, and his arms outstretched, peering near blind at the sky -- the bedroom ceiling -- and the fan stopped spinning, sitting still like a cross staring down at Prussia. The albatross about the Mariner's neck. Slung stiff, in suspension. This was it. This was the moment Prussia had dreaded for years. The moment he'd be taken home.

"WAIT!" screamed Prussia. He lunged from beneath the bed, and out from the shadow, and into the light; he slid on his stomach, and grabbed Rome by the ankles. Both hands wrapped tight around the empire's skin, leaving indentions, red and deep, on slick, tanned flesh; scratches, two inches above sandal straps. "You can't send me to Heaven, Old Man!"

Grandpa Rome ignored Prussia, as if the former was in a trance. Prussia whimpered, and without thought, bit Rome; sinking his teeth into the empire's calf.

Rome didn't scream. He didn't feel pain. If he could -- if he did -- he ignored it, with the blissful expression of a priest officiating a baptism. An Infant's Christening. The innocent life of a man who was no longer a country hung in the balance, decided on the whim of an old man in a toga; resting on the limbs of Rome. Two uplifted in the air, and two on the ground, one with teeth-marks. And Prussia bawled.

Rome tilted his head down, after a long silence, filled only by a gentle hum akin to a passing car in the distance; a breeze across a lake. The cold burst of air dispersed from the room, and the ceiling fan spun again. The light faded, and Rome cursed.

"Damn it," he said. "I was sure I prayed hard enough."

Prussia rubbed his cheeks with the back of his hand. "You were talking to God just now?" he asked.

Rome nodded. "He said I could make a deal with you, but I don't think you'll like it."

Prussia scrambled to his feet, using Rome's body as leverage; pawing his way up, like a cat climbing a tree.

"I'll do anything!" said Prussia. "Give me the order, and I'll take it!"

The ever-ready soldier willing to march on a moment's notice. The battle set to begin, and a war to rage, and Prussia was outfitted in a t-shirt and boxers. Barefoot. An iron cross necklace dangling about his neck. The cross to bear. No albatrosses were shot, in the making of this epic life of a country no longer a country; dissolved, but still living; still in existence.

"God said if you were to come home with me right now, you could visit your brother once a year." Rome shrugged. "I know that's not much, so I was trying to ask for more time..." Rome scowled at the ceiling, and thrust out his fist, tempted to flash an obscene Italian gesture; opting instead for a nervous laugh. "But I guess he didn't hear me. - He never answered."

"West?" cried Prussia. "But I don't want to visit him as a ghosty ghost! And I sure as hell don't want to go home with you tonight. I mean...you can't make me go to Heaven, if I'm not ready!" he sulked. "I haven't even had a full life yet."

Rome smiled. He patted Prussia on the head. "You've had centuries," he said.

But had Prussia learned the meaning of life; had Prussia fulfilled a single dream, except greatness, and glory as a war machine; on the battlefield, he was a god, and in the history books would be remembered as a country springing into existence, then banned to perdition.

"You act like this is the end," said Rome. "You still have Heaven!" he laughed. "You have me, and a few of my friends." He whispered, "You may not remember them too well," as he pulled Prussia close, in an attempt to hug him, "but they remember you."

Prussia's arms swayed loose and limp at his sides, as Grandpa Rome held him, a warm smile on his careworn face. "There's more to life than what you think," said Rome, and he pulled away, jolted by his own epiphany. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "I'll ask God for a favor!!"

The fallen empire rushed towards the bedroom door, leaving Prussia in a state of shock.

"And if he refuses," continued Rome, "I'll tie him up, and make sure it happens!"

Prussia watched with wide eyes, and tear-soaked cheeks, as a winking Rome vanished on the threshold. Into thin air, and off into the night, Prussia heard soft laughter.

"I don't know," said Prussia, scratching his head. "That guy...he, uh..."

The smell of pasta and garlic lingered in the air, as Prussia raised the bedroom window, peering out at the black and moon and stars. "Dear God," he prayed, "if you grant Rome this favor, I'll be forever grateful..."

He climbed into his bed, and cuddled into his sheets, placing Gilbird on his forehead. He finished his prayer, before falling asleep:

"No matter what kind of crazy favor it is."


	3. The Breakfast Mess

In the morning, Prussia was greeted by the sun, and the theory, 'Maybe it was all a dream.' The product of something he ate.

His dinner of potatoes with herbs and cheese, and beer to drink, and a shot of whiskey to wash it all down -- to drown it all out -- had settled well enough in his cast iron stomach. His liver used to worst treatment.

A Freudian Slip in his mind -- 'wurst' treatment -- conjured a sudden craving; his stomach growled at the thought of meat for breakfast, and he called out to Germany.

"Awesome me is awake - make sausage!"

He didn't want to cook. Didn't want to face the day, period, but ah well...dragging his body from bed after little to no sleep was nothing new.

He skidded across the room, eyes half-shut, and used his fingers to comb his hair.

"West!" he shouted in the hall. "Bratwurst!!"

Germany's bedroom door was still shut, and behind it, surely, lied two countries, probably naked in each other's arms.

"Hmm," said Prussia, with a fist raised to the door, but he second-thought it best not to knock.

To see Italy naked was always a treat...but not West. No thank you.

"Bulky Little Brother," Prussia mumbled, as he continued his trek down the long hall, until he graced the stairwell with his underdressed presence.

Descending, and onto the kitchen, Prussia prepared a breakfast fit for a fallen king. A lonely German's feast, of sausage, and coffee. The latter smelt sweeter than ever, but tasted bitter.

"Too bad Austria isn't here," he lamented to his bird-motif mug; a yellow bird imprinted on white porcelain, reminding Prussia, Gilbird was still in bed. Not a morning person -- not a person at all, but that never stopped Prussia from thinking of him as such; his best friend in the whole world.

Well...maybe second best friend.

From his seat at the dinner table, he devoured his meal, and capped it off with a confession: "Austria's coffee always tastes better than mine," he said.

"Thanks," came a voice from behind.

Prussia turned to see Austria, dressed in an impeccable dark blue suit and gray silk tie, standing in the open doorway which connected the kitchen to the living room. His arms crossed, as if awaiting a train, twenty minutes late, though knowing Austria, he'd be waiting at the wrong station.

Having let himself in, through the front entrance, with prior permission, of course, Austria rested against the doorframe, nonchalant. Assured he was always welcomed. Though Germany had never bothered giving Austria his own key; knowing damned well Austria would misplace it. So the brothers had housed a spare key in a stereotypic hollow plastic rock marked with the letter 'A'. Nestled in the dirt of one of Germany's many flower beds. Austria didn't have a habit of showing up unannounced, and seldom used the key, but today a sense of urgency forced him to find the fake rock, remove the key, and creep through the living room en route to the upstairs bedrooms, but he was distracted by the smell of breakfast, and like a mouse to cheese, followed the scent.

Prussia grinned, and wrapped his arm around the back of the chair.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Lose something??"

Austria shook his head, and leaned forward, craning his neck, as if trying to spy the contents of the tabletop; the ravaged plates scattered about the wooden surface.

"You've already finished?" he asked.

Prussia turned to survey his own mess.

"Yeah," he said, blushing; the few scraps remaining spoke volumes of the large amount of food ingested. "But I can make more, if you're hungry."

"Look," said Austria, "I didn't come here to dine with you."

He crossed the room, studying the used oily pan, and discarded coffee filter, and grease-edged spatula lying in the sink. "I have a meeting today, along with your brother," he said, as he took a seat, across from Prussia. "But if you don't mind feeding me, I guess I'll eat."

"You want me to _feed_ you? Like a little baby??" Prussia teased. "I'm not sure I have a bib, big enough to fit you!"

Austria glared, and 'hmphed', and raised his leg to cross it, but careful not to muss his pants, chose instead to cross his ankles.

Prussia laughed. "Too bad you're not wearing one of your cravats...you could use that as a baby bib."

"I didn't mean 'feed me', you Fool," Austria snapped.

Prussia stood, and scooted his chair beneath the table ledge. "Well, you should say what you mean, and mean what you say!" He grabbed his dirty plates, and carried them to the sink.

"Grammar lessons from a man in Flintstones boxer shorts," said Austria.

Prussia looked down, having forgotten he was half-dressed.

"Hey, you leave Dino out of this!" he shouted.

Austria smirked, and toyed with his tie.

Prussia turned, red-cheeked, towards the sink; filling it with plates, and silverware, and dish soap, and water: hot and running. He pretended not to hear...

Austria waited until Prussia had turned off the faucet, to repeat his question. "I said, Do I look nice today??"

Prussia 'hmm?-ed', feigning ignorance to Austria having posed the question twice. He glanced over his shoulder, but was quick to turn back to the task at hand, elbow deep in dishwater. "I guess so," he shrugged.

The plates clanked together, as he scrubbed and scalded, setting the rinsed dishes on an outlaid towel.

"With all the money your brother has," said Austria, using his finger to slide his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and then down again, to rest on the tip, "I assumed you two would own a dishwasher."

"I _am_ a dishwasher," said Prussia, brandishing a freshly-washed spatula, dripping water onto the floor; a magician armed with a shining wand. He pointed it at Austria. "I am a machine! I'm better than a machine!!" he laughed. "I can't break."

Austria removed his glasses, setting them on the table, to rub his eyes and forehead. Searching for one final moment of calm; alerted by the thunder proceeding the storm; the Prussian noise and nonsense before the Austrian's newfound headache could become full-blown. 'Unbreakable,' he mused to himself.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," he said.


	4. The Breakfast Mess continued, or, That's What Rome Said...

Prussia prepared a second breakfast. Sausage, and toast, and hash browns. Austria brewed the coffee. Less bitter.

The smell must have drifted upstairs, because Germany soon appeared, dressed in pajamas, and scratching his head. An odd look on his face. "Austria," he said. "What are you doing here at this hour?" He didn't wait for an answer, but instead continued walking, as if dazed, towards the kitchen door, en route to the morning paper on his doorstep.

"What do you mean 'this hour'?! It's almost nine o'clock! And we have a meeting today, and you're not even dressed! And why can't you look at me while I'm talking to you?!" and a slew of other insult-laden remarks escaped from Austria's mouth.

"Since when are you so observant of the time?" asked Germany, as he returned with the paper tucked beneath his arm, shutting the door behind him.

"Yeah," said Prussia, plucking a cup of coffee from Austria's hands, "you're always late for everything!"

He set the mug on the table, for Germany, who sat down, and began scanning the front page.

"Making me wait, and worry..." Germany mumbled, before sighing over a headline.

"Poor West," said Prussia, as he ventured off to pour more coffee into his own cup. The plucked cup was for his 'super competent' little brother, neither of them knowing Austria had already drank from it. Taking a slow sip while no one was looking.

Austria smiled.

"Well, I thought since Italy was sleeping over last night, you might be running late, too," he said, retrieving his full plate of food from the kitchen counter, and carrying it, to sit next to Germany. Leaning over, pretending to be interested in the day's news, as he sipped his secretly-second cup of coffee. "So I took my time, and got dressed up nice."

Prussia joined them, and watched, sulking, as Austria barely touched his meal; poking at bratwurst with a fork, and cringing at its 'poor' appearance.

"This looks undercooked," Austria said, his nose in the air, sliding the plate towards Prussia.

"You don't like my sausage?!" Prussia screamed, slamming his palm to the table. "My bratwurst isn't good enough for you, huh? You Spoiled Brat!"

"Exactly," said Austria. "It looks spoiled. You might as well have served cheap summer sausage."

"You're a cheap summer sausage," Prussia grumbled, as Germany flipped to the funny pages, and Austria stole the coupon section.

"So about your morning," said Germany, feigning interest; nodding at Prussia to push the plate towards him.

Prussia grinned, and scooted it across the table, leaning forward, and sticking out his tongue at Austria, as Germany tasted the food, and dubbed it, 'Mmm, not bad'.

Austria huffed, and cut out coupons with the aid of an unsoiled butter knife.

"I also arrived here ahead of schedule," he said, "because I had a little help in finding my way."

"Oh?" said Germany, while peppering the hash browns.

Prussia sulked, thinking Germany lied about the food not being bad, but turned to Austria, and said, "You mean you had someone walk you over here?" He laughed. "Like a little old lady: you need some big strong guy like me to hold your hand!"

"Well," said Austria, as he finished his last drop of coffee, and stacked his jagged-edged coupons, "he was a big strong guy, at that."

"WHO WAS HE?" shouted Prussia. "I'll kick his ass!"

A sudden interest in the conversation was born, thus Germany laid the newspaper on the table, and his fork on his plate. Washing down the peppered bite of hash browns, with secondhand Austria-flavored coffee, he wiped his mouth, and asked, "Yes, Austria...tell us. Who was this man who escorted you?"

Prussia leaned back in his chair, pouting and glaring: a scolded child told to stay in at recess, while the other kids ran outside to play.

"It was Rome," said Austria, his chin raised, as if blessed by a visit from God himself.

"OH," said Germany, and he stifled a laugh.

Despite his dismissive grin, a worried sympathetic gaze swept across his face, along with a light sweat on his brow, as he stood, and cleared the table. "I hope he wasn't too rough with you, Austria."

Germany loaded the dishes into the sink, wiping his hands on the damp dishcloth. "If I recall, he was a bit aggressive with me..." he cringed, "sitting on the bed...holding me."

Prussia leaned forward. "No one wants to hear about your ghosty sex life, West!" he shouted, yet thought, 'Shit. He did that to me, too!'

Germany ignored his brother's silly insinuation. "Go on, Austria," he said. "Tell us why Rome visited you."

Prussia smirked, and held back every word floating through his mind. A poker player bluffing in a high-stakes game. 'You go first...show me your hand...forget the old guy was in my bedroom last night.'

Prussia crossed his legs, and placed his hand beneath his chin in a pose akin to a talk show host interviewing a guest they planned to humiliate, later in the program. 'Divulge all your secrets, and I'll find your weak point, and thoroughly grin at you...' Prussia's plan was perfect. Foolproof.

He turned, and winked at West, who was propped against the kitchen counter, tearing an unused coffee filter to bits; his gaze affixed to the foot of the stairs. Waiting...

"Well," said Austria, followed by a long dramatic sip from his empty coffee cup, pretending; milking the full attention of the Brothers German. How seldom he had them both in his company; in the palm of his hand, along with four aces. "Why don't you go first, Prussia? What did Rome say to you??"

Prussia's eyes shot wide, and Austria almost smiled, and Germany was making tiny squared confetti, out of stress.

Prussia's exaggerated laugh sounded: the telltale hallmark of his discomfort. "What do you mean?!" he asked, his voice growing shrill. "I haven't spoke to Rome! That was just the whiskey talking!!"

"Enough!" shouted Germany, banging his fist on the countertop. Bits of coffee filter flew through the air. "Get on with YOUR story, Austria, before I lose my composure."

Austria faked a yawn, patting his mouth with his hand. "I believe you've already lost it," he said, "or perhaps it's still upstairs, along with your naked boyfriend."

"Hey!" said Prussia, as he lunged from his seat at the table, grabbing Austria by his silk tie, pulling him close, and breathing heavy down his neck; panting, "You leave West and Cute Italy out of this conversation!"

Austria glared at the bent-back ex-country: his crooked grin, and his bared teeth; coffee-scented breath, and his silver hair unkempt. Dino the Dinosaur, printed on Prussia's boxer shorts, staring Austria in the face, due to Prussia's legs spread and sprawled, nearly straddling Austria's lap.

"It's no big deal," Austria said.

Eyes narrowed behind his glasses. So tight-lipped -- every word, so careful and slow and enunciated.

Prussia wanted to grab the Little Brat by his chin, and shake less venomous words loose; words with double meaning. Dripping thick and sour with envy? Of course it was a big deal! West and Cute Italy, and all that did little to phase Prussia; despite having a crush on Italy for years, he was happy for West, and knew discussing it made his little brother uncomfortable. So it was a facade every morning, after Italy slept over, to pretend no one was upstairs, waiting and wilted from a night of hard 'training'. A little game he and West played, pretending Germany and Italy were only friends, and the breakfast the two brothers ate together wouldn't be marred by Austria and his unneeded label of 'boyfriends'. Not everything had to be given a name, or discussed in the open; the daylight. What was wrong with keeping secrets and playing games?

Nothing. After all, testing each other's limits was a beloved pastime of Prussia and Austria, and had been, for centuries. What better way to color their near-endless lives? But using Germany's sensitive nature as a pawn for baiting Prussia was unprecedented. Knowing damn well Germany wanted to keep his private life silent, Austria had only uttered the remark in the hopes of getting Prussia on his toes; braced to battle, instead of pre-softening the blow. Let him face it angry; let his 'mean face' etch itself to his very soul, and then...he'll be in fighting spirits. No tears over a message delivered in the midst of an otherwise casual morning, once the peaceful atmosphere laid destroyed.

"You're going to turn into a regular human tonight," said Austria.

His words came quicker; a loaded gun, once jammed, now ready to fire.

He reached his hand to the knot at his neck, and pulled, un-slithering the tie from Prussia's weakened grasp.

"At Midnight," Austria continued, "you're going to die so your body can no longer be immortal, and you'll be born again in an instant, and you can carry on living, at the exact human age you are right now."

Prussia whimpered, and stepped back.

Germany gasped, shaking his head, and held out his hand towards his brother, but stood in place.

Austria shut his eyes.

"Rome assured me," he said, "the transition will be painless."


	5. The Books He had Read...

After the world meeting, Austria and Germany returned to Germany's house, and all the lights were turned out. Opening the door, and tossing the keys, and is anyone home?

They searched the downstairs, first, then made their way upstairs, where Italy was no longer sleeping. He had left around noon, having asked Romano to attend the meeting as the sole representative of their shared country; to venture back to his own bed for an unneeded nap. A siesta, followed by food, wine, and more sleep.

Austria noticed the light shining from beneath the shut bathroom door, and pointed it out to Germany. The latter placed his palm against it, turning the knob, careful, lest it rattle...

Germany peeked into the bathroom, and found Prussia in the tub. The outskirts of the tub's edge littered with beer bottles. Gilbird floating, wearing a tiny life preserver. Prussia in orange water wings, and a pair of blue goggles atop his head.

"Hey, West," he said, waving, and from beneath the bathwater, withdrew a snorkel, and stuck it in his mouth.

He sank beneath the surface, leaving only the tip of the snorkel in sight.

"You can't hide in here!" shouted Germany. He rushed towards the tub. Pushing up his sleeves, and grabbing Prussia by the head, and plucking him from the water, with such force, bathwater splashed to the tile floor.

Prussia kicked and thrashed, until Germany dropped him.

Sprawling naked near the tub. Spatting out the snorkel...

"What the hell?!" he gasped.

Austria stood on the threshold, shaking his head; his eyes cast to the floor.

Germany glared down at his brother.

"This is your last night as an immortal country," he said, "and THIS is how you want to spend it?!"

* * *

Struck by Germany's question, Austria snapped to attention. "That's right!" he said. "Rome told me, if you want to have a normal life span, you must live life to the fullest. You can't squander this extra time doing nothing, and..."

Germany hushed Austria, and shooed him away with his hand. "Go wait for us," he said. Thinking it best to keep the details of the arrangement made by God and Rome quiet, until Prussia could regain his senses, and understand it word for word.

Of course, Prussia wasn't deaf, and a few bottles of beer did little to affect his comprehension; only his behavior. Often aggravating his aggressive nature, or exacerbating his boastful claims of finding joy in a lonesome life, but on this particular night: it exaggerated his playful side. Thinking nothing, while drunk, of digging through the storage room, giggling all the while, in search of pool toys and the miniature 'Mae West' he once sewed for Gilbird while on holiday. 'Just why does America call them that?' he had wondered aloud. And in a saucy accent, misquoting the film star, he had added, 'Why don't you come up and see me sometime!', to which Gilbird responded by flying to Prussia's head. So in a fit of laughter, the two had ran upstairs for a bath. Why not spend his final moments of immortality doing something fun?! With his little friend. While all the official countries were busy at a meeting...not that Prussia cared.

Austria left the room, words still lingering in his mind. All the things he had failed to say, yet fine; let them have their privacy.

It wasn't 'alone time' Germany was after; as always, a loved one's physical and mental state was of the utmost importance; health was top priority! Wanting his sibling warmed-up, sobered-up, and on his feet again, before faced with more revelations. Anything to help his intoxicated, shallow-tub diver of a brother recover from his lukewarm bath...

Drying him off with a well-worn towel, as Prussia stood shivering on the mat. Glaring in the mirror above the sink. Patted down like a criminal, if the cop had mittens for hands.

"I'm not a child," said Prussia. "I can do that myself."

But Prussia stood with heavy lids, and glazed-over eyes. Not staring at his reflection, but past it. Over it. There was someone else in the room with them. He kept watching above his shoulder, via the mirror. Sure death's hand, or maybe Rome's, would soon filch him. Long fingers creeping up his neck. He grabbed the wrist he saw in the reflection, and flipped the figure behind him, to its back. "AH HA!" Prussia shouted. But his eyes returned to wide and manic, as he stared at his brother, collapsed on the floor; staggering to stand.

Excessive apologies followed. "I thought I saw a ghost," Prussia laughed, as Germany combed his brother's hair, and dabbed him with cologne. Was this a date, or a mortician preparing the body for a funeral??

"What do I need this stuff for?" asked Prussia, sniffing at himself.

"I don't know what else to do," Germany said.

* * *

Down the hall, a madman marching to the electric chair, Prussia led a two man parade, relishing his final moments: sentenced to death for a crime he committed, sure...he said he was sorry, though, didn't he?

Or maybe he failed to ever say it aloud. But did they even give him a chance? A fair trial?!

No. He didn't commit a crime. Or if he did, he didn't commit it alone. He kept his head high, and marched, wearing a towel as a skirt.

Into his bedroom, he turned and faced the country sitting in one of two chairs next to the bed.

Austria: with his palm to his forehead. Running a fever, for fear Germany would fall sick from all the stress.

"Aren't you going to dress him?!" Austria asked.

Germany shrugged, and lingered on the threshold, as if trying to decide whether or not to shut the door behind him.

"Sit down," seethed Prussia. "Let's get this over with."

Germany joined Austria, in the empty seat at Prussia's bedside. The spectators at the execution. The witnesses. The pressmen looking for the most dramatic headline. 'Ex-Country Dissolved and Reborn Before Our Very Eyes!'

Prussia dropped the towel, but not the act, and crawled undressed, but clean and sweet-smelling into bed.

"Just the way I came in," he said. "I assume."

* * *

An hour 'til Midnight. Germany knew; he checked his wristwatch every eight point two seconds.

"You gonna time me?" asked Prussia, one eye shut, as if eternally winking. Just the way he came in.

Austria stood, and paced the room, and opened the window, only to ease it shut two minutes and four seconds later.

Germany knew.

And he and Austria exchanged glances, as Austria shed his jacket, and Germany sat yanking at his shirt, and blowing his breath upward to cool his forehead.

"Do you need a blanket?" Germany asked his brother.

Prussia shook his head 'no', and fished Gilbird from his hair.

"You sit here," he said, setting the bird to his heart.

Forcing out the words, Germany asked, "Are you scared?"

Prussia shook his head 'no' again, and stroked the warm ball of damp, yellow feathers.

Austria stared as if awaiting a more audible and truthful answer.

Prussia cringed uneasy, and turned to catch Austria in the midst of his spy-job. "And what did you come along for?" he asked Austria. "To watch me suffer?"

"I don't want to see that," said Austria.

"Yeah?" said Prussia. "Then don't look."

Austria crossed his arms, and rubbed his elbows; turned to the wall, to hide his face.

"Brother," said Germany, reaching to the bed, and resting his hand on Prussia's leg. "I thought you said you weren't scared..."

"I'm not scared!" said Prussia. He opened both eyes, and sat up in bed, cupping his hand beneath his heart, careful to catch whatever may fall out, by accident; the unwanted overflow and outpouring of emotions, or lest Gilbird fall to the single bedsheet atop the body. White and thin, and now all Prussia needed was a toe tag, he thought. And laughed. A grimace and a grin, and that manic look once again reigned supreme; a shocking countenance. "I'm not afraid of anything! Certainly not death!!"

"We're all afraid," said Austria, still facing the wall, and the window he wanted to re-open, for the sake of cool air, but God forbid Prussia's soul escape. Or maybe what stayed his hand was the fear of Rome joining them, or Prussia catching cold from his tepid bath nonsense.

Drunk, and pale, Prussia rolled to his side...glaring at nothing, and spoke as if writing an elegy in his diary, knowing his worst enemy would someday read it.

"I'm not scared of anything Rome told you about me...I know what he said! You can't fool me. This is it. I won't shake. I won't tremble at anything," he rambled on, in quasi-rhymes, gaining clarity the longer he waxed poetic, "except the awesome glory I am! I carved _myself_ out of the land!! I don't need the 'Lesser German' to hold my hand."

Prussia laughed, and coughed, and Germany checked his watch every eight point two seconds, until...

"Ten minutes," he said.

A whimper rose from the bedsheet, where Prussia had, in slow motion, buried his head.

"It'd be nice, though..." he mumbled.

Germany leapt from his seat, knocking the chair backwards. "What would be nice, Brother?! -- What do you want? -- We'll get it for you!"

He leaned and hit Austria on the shoulder, pointing, with wild gestures, towards the bed.

Austria didn't turn.

Prussia smiled, uncovering his face. "It'd be nice to have someone next to me. Like in the movies I've seen, and books I've read. To end in someone's arms...like a hero in a love story."

Germany stood frozen. What he couldn't do for his brother...or could he? The thought crossed his mind, or maybe it crossed his heart, but was banned from his mind. Vetoed. Killed in its tracks. 'A love story?!'

Austria tugged his cravat, or tried to; realizing, by way of force, and an absence of material in his hand, he hadn't worn a cravat that day at all, but a silk tie, for the meeting, and nearly choked himself with the tie's knot. A noose about the neck. A mariner, and his albatross wasn't roped around his neck at all, but lying, washed ashore, in bed.

He revised his plan, and loosened the tie, and grunted. What a desperate sound from an otherwise prudish man.

But possible perdition, and Prussia on a possible deathbed. What weight did the words of Rome carry, anyway?? A deal with God?! To make Prussia a regular human?!! If he could live a 'full' life in the allotted time span?! Or risk dying outright, instead, as a former personified country.

Rome had assured Austria, on their morning walk through Berlin, while chatting over Italy, and Catholicism, 'If he stays a country, he's all out of time. But you have to make sure he uses his new life well.'

And even if Prussia wasn't dying in the grand sense, he deserved a last request, for facing the loss of immortality. For beginning life again. A consolation prize; a parting gift...

Austria fumbled with his shirt, in an attempt to unbutton it with one pull, but failed.

"Good grief," said Germany, but sighed in relief, to see a pinch hitter stepping up to the plate.

He reached out, and ripped the shirt clean from Austria's back.

The latter flashed a worried smile, and handed Germany his glasses.

Was he diving into water, or crawling into bed?!

Germany ran fingers through his blond hair, and held his wristwatch two inches from his face. Nodding at the two men.

Austria kicked off his shoes, and eased into bed. Outstretched beside Prussia, beneath the sheet. Head propped by pillows, offering a bare chest for Prussia to cling to. An elbow crook to nuzzle into. An arm to wrap around him, like in all those movies he'd seen; in all those books he'd read. Held, on the verge of death by someone who knew him as a friend, and would miss him, surely, should his heart stop beating beneath a bird, and Rome proved to be a bad deal-maker, God a liar, and this be it. The end he had dreaded.

"But I never thought it would be you," Prussia said.


	6. And on the Second Night, A Second Ghost

The sunset of a man's life...the end, and what will he remember on his deathbed? The days of glory in lit fields of green. A chess game played with pieces too large to see. Who's moving them? The hands unseen, and I'll crown you -- checkmate -- and I stole your king.

'You don't have to cry about it...'

The empires fell like a house of cards stacked against a strong breeze. Rome played too many games in the open. The battlefields littered with a lack of aces. The Joker smiling...

And Prussia?

He smiled, too, as if a child in the throes of a desperate needed sleep. Oh, how he had fussed about it! The young at heart are never ready for bedtime, no matter how tired their bodies have become. At the end of a long day, and life, and the kings toppled. The game over due to lack of time. It's a draw; it's a tie, between death and life, and surely, if there's nothing after, there's something in between. The light after sunset, and before the moon rises. The mirky dusk. The purples and pinks, and all the colors of Prussia's eyes on the horizon. A watercolor painting, watermarked 'God', and no one man can capture eternity. No matter how hard he longs to stay awake.

Fighting sleep, like a stubborn child; men never want to age, and no one wants to die.

Ah, but to be born again. To awake in the morning, to the song of a bird on your beating heart.

Prussia lived.

He had fought sleep, but sought comfort in the dream of a kingdom bearing his name; of a watermark on a graffitied gate. 'Prussia was here...' And a broken wall. And a long scarf unfurled from the scarred neck of a man no longer able to touch him here.

Not in the safety of his dreams; the sanctity of a much needed sleep, granted by a former king. Of all the Grim Reapers, Old Fritz was indeed the most graceful; the one who graced Prussia's bedside in the prior hours of the evening. To find Prussia's body lying on an unlit funeral pyre of pillows and the bared flesh of his once worst enemy.

And Prussia was most gracious to 'see' him, even if Austria and Germany could not. They had fallen asleep, too, but slept as countries. Austria's dreams filled with pianos floating in oceans, and the soft sound of Brahms to serve as the soundtrack -- the background music -- lulling him to stay asleep. And Germany? He dreamt of France. Always France. That Twin Engine. How to strengthen the EU, and their relationship...amongst cuckoo clocks, and other things.

"Fritz, you came for me?" Prussia had asked, around the dead of night -- 3 AM -- never opening his eyes; only grinning, with a slight whimper; in desperate need of a drink of water. Or whiskey. Or whatever shot can keep a man asleep.

"I came for you," Fritz had said.

And he placed his hand upon Prussia's forehead: a worried parent checking his child's temperature. And here we go again: more doctor's visits; more waiting rooms. The worried expression of a caregiver, faded, as he realized Prussia was warm, but not too warm. Pulse racing.

"I hope you find peace," he had said, "as this newfound human."

A man sent back to God, marked 'defective'. Please exchange him for a different model. A mortal one. A living, breathing man, with blood in his veins, and not the blood of his people; not the blood of a country, but of an everyman. A plain ol' guy. Entrenched beneath the facade of a twenty-six year old civilian, yet...he was still Prussia. Still Fritz's honorary son.

"You'll be all right," he had said.

And in response, Prussia had fumbled in the dark, until he found and grabbed Fritz's arm, wrapping fingers gentle about the King's wrist. Holding Fritz's palm to Prussia's cheek.

"Rome said I have to live a full life now," Prussia had said.

Fritz leaned down, and whispered every secret he knew on how to achieve it.

"Just do as I did," he had said, "but without the kingdom."

From one man to another.

From father to son.

And all the while, Germany and Austria slept, and Prussia soon returned to his vivid dreams.

Until morning came, and Gilbird cheeped.

A lazy daybreak for two countries, and a plain ol', unclothed man.

In the arms of Austria, Prussia awoke, and for the first time in years, was terrified, not to die, but to live.


	7. Hyper Hides the Fear

Terrified or not, Prussia would be God damned if he'd show it.

'Besides,' he thought, 'a new life is exciting!'

Conflicting emotions: harnessed behind a smile.

'I'll just do as Fritz told me,' he reassured himself, and with the comfort it brought, Prussia sprang from the bed, sending Gilbird into flight, for the little bird had spent the entire night on Prussia's chest.

Donning his bedsheet as a cape, "I feel great!" Prussia said.

A noiseless tap dance commenced -- well, near noiseless; slight tapping of bare feet, on a wood-planked floor, and the flapping of wings, as Gilbird seemed to cheer for his friend. Delighted by his survival.

"Austria!" said Prussia, and he knelt on the bed, grabbing Austria by the arm. "Get up, and dance with me! Be the Fred to my Ginger!"

'No wait,' he thought, and rephrased, "Be the Ginger to my Fred!!"

Peering down at the man who had fulfilled his last request; wishing he had a camera within reach. To take a picture of Austria's cute and pouty 'sleepy-time' face. He'd use it to embarrass him later. Or hell, maybe Prussia would frame it.

Indeed, the trio had fallen into a deep and instant sleep, at Midnight. Rome had made sure of that! The unseen visitor with his nose pressed against Prussia's bedroom window (just as soon as Austria had quit toying with it). And forget the localities: a second floor window was no hard place for a ghost/angel/former empire to hover. Casting spells upon the two countries amidst the one ex-nation, who needed no spell; whose heart had froze for a solid minute of silence, and engulfed by exhaustion, had lied unconscious until his visitation from Fritz.

Prussia tugged at Austria's arm. "Wake up," he said. "Christmas came early this year!" Leaning in closer, he whispered in singsong, "And I've got a little present for you."

Opening his eyes, Austria drew a deep breath. "You...you're naked!" he shouted. The previous night, not erased from memory, but recalled at a sluggish speed; delayed by the 'rude' awakening. In need of a moment to gather his thoughts, yet a jolting refrain of 'Where am I?!' echoed through his mind, which was further troubled by the bizarre sight of Prussia's nakedness, and of Germany's presence, serving as a dormant spectator in a nearby chair.

"Of course I'm naked," laughed Prussia.

He arose from the bed, again, hands on his hips, and grinned, baring everything; his pelvic thrust forward, and posing, like a proud statue a sculptor forgot to clothe. "And you're shirtless," smirked Prussia, pointing to Austria. "And Germany...well...maybe we should take off his pants."

"NO," said Austria. "I mean..." he rubbed his eyes, and searched for his glasses; forgetting they were still safe-kept in Germany's front shirt pocket. Not that Austria needed glasses in order to see. He simply had a routine of waking, putting on glasses...other mindless, needless habits, carried out while half-asleep.

"I can't wait for breakfast!" said Prussia, resuming his dance. "I'm going to eat a real feast! Just like a regular guy. No more skinny me..."

Prussia's weight had dropped to its lowest in history, resulting from a lack of nationhood and population; a population he could call his own. Without people living in the actual country of Prussia (due to its dissolution over a half a century ago), he could barely maintain a healthy weight at all! Of course, there were still people alive who were born in Prussia. And those natural-born citizens had descendants; people who identified with such a lineage, but the numbers were dwindling. And with it, Prussia's body mass decreased. Despite his daily workouts, and his voracious and, at times, inconvenient appetite.

"No, I mean..." Austria repeated, cutting in on Prussia's meal plan song-and-dance, "I don't think we should wake him yet," he said, nodding towards Germany. "And...I wish you would put on some clothes."

Austria climbed from the bed, with an odd smile, and a light blush. "You are a civilian now, after all, and I'm not sure it's decent for me, a still existent country, to see you in such a state."

"You know you like it," purred Prussia. "Besides, you've seen me like this before."

Austria shook his head, dismissing the comment, or perhaps trying to hush his flamboyant friend. "Yes, well...that was when we were both countries," he said, then lowered his voice, as if he were about to speak a word too vulgar to utter, "and until last night, it's not like I had ever seen you naked in a _bedroom_ , before." Clearing his throat, he added, "It's different."

"Oh?" said Prussia, taking a hint, and wrapping the sheet around his body, as if the sheet were a fashionable dress. Batting his eyelashes, and puckering his lips. "Don't you think I look pretty in this bedroom? Don't you want to hold me again?"

Austria gasped. He turned to face Prussia, with a sharp twist of the neck, and a razor tongue ready to sever Prussia's insinuations in half. "You know I only did that because we thought Rome was lying!" he said. "To soften the blow, in case..."

His words trailed off. He hadn't the heart to admit the rest, nor to tell his friend, for the most part, it was all meaningless to him. Only carried out to console Prussia on what Austria assumed could be an actual deathbed riddled with pain. But here was Prussia, not only alive and awake, but happy as a regular human. Though Austria saw no difference in Prussia's physical state. And his attitude was as boisterous as ever! Conflicted, to feel so annoyed, yet to relish the wave of relief; Austria deemed it best to say little else of Rome, and stood, with a sympathetic gaze, and mouth agape.

Prussia crossed his arms, and 'tsk-ed'.

"So you mean you didn't want to," Prussia sulked. "And here I thought you'd make an honest woman of me." He feigned a whimper, and pretended to cry. "My mascara's gonna run, because you don't have the guts to marry me now."

"WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT MARRIAGE?!" Austria screamed.

Germany awoke, and sat in a state of shock at the awkward happenings in Prussia's bedroom.

"Of course you have to marry me," said Prussia. He leapt onto the bed, and bounded across it, to greet Austria on the other side. Holding his sheet tight, tucked beneath his arms: a strapless wedding gown.

He grabbed a pillow, and shook its insides loose; freeing it from the white case. The latter of which he draped over his head, and Gilbird flew to Prussia's hair, plucking at the fabric -- snapping it between his beak -- to hold the pillowcase in place, to serve as a veil.

"You're just mad because I look better as a bride than you would."

Germany forced himself to blink; checking his watch, holding it close to his ear, to make sure this was life, and not a dream.

"What are you two fighting about now?!" he said, whining, as if someone had beat the air out of him with a bat. 'A baseball bat!' he thought he heard America say. 'No, it's a cricket bat!' he thought he heard England retort. A little angel and a little devil, sitting on Germany's shoulders. Miniature and somewhat transparent visions of personified countries, dressed in costume. England the Angel, and America the Devil, although he wasn't sure what dictated their respective incarnations. Yet, in moments of distress, as if he were a cartoon character in need of guidance, they'd show up, bantering from one side of his body to the next. Tiny apparitions, perhaps born from his days of post-WWII Allied occupation.

"Quick, West! Get a shotgun!!" exclaimed Prussia. "Austria is refusing to marry me!"

"Your brother WANTS to marry me?!" said Austria. Was it a question, or a statement, or a cry for dear help.

Germany thought of Italy, and his desperate pleas of 'Tie my shoelaces! Germany, Germany!' - 'Football!!' -- 'No, Cricket!' -- 'Baseball!!' - Ah, his mind was a mess of various people...places...accents...wedding dress toga bedsheets, and pillowcase veils - KABOOM! - Germany entered frozen 'Am I HRE or not?!' mode, as the men in his mind (and not on his shoulders) struggled to compute his foreign emotions. Reverting to stand-by, Germany sat stiff and wide-eyed like a battery-drained machine.

"Never mind," said Austria, "I can't marry you, and you know it."

Ignoring Germany's meltdown, having witnessed a few in the past, and certain he deserved the final word in the conversation anyway, chin raised, Austria made a break for the bedroom door, hoping to escape the indecent proposal, and the questionable sanity of the Brothers German, and the bedroom in general. Leave it behind him. Forget the night ever happened. Sure, he was the voice of reason! With Germany daydreaming nothing now, the voice of reason had to fall to someone, and why not Austria? While the men in Germany's mind battled not with hearts over Italy, but with dusty files marked 'Why do my big brother and Austria always fight with each other?' bearing the subheading 'Maybe there's more to their relationship and history than they like to let on...'

Austria's beeline for the door, and overall escape plan, however, was interrupted by Prussia, who lunged in front of him. Arms outspread.

"Why? Because you're Catholic and I'm Lutheran?" Prussia asked. "Or, wait," he said, jumping around, as the shirtless Austria tried to brush past him; two basketball players on a glossy wooden court. The referee comatose on the sidelines; malfunctioned, in the climax of the game, overwhelmed by the plethora of trash-talk amongst the key players. Always challenging one another, as rivals, but perhaps now, they were joining the same team?!

\-- It was all too much, so hence the silence from the sidelines. 'Let them sort it out!'

"Or are you Jewish now? I can't remember," Prussia said. And he reached out, and took Austria's hand into his own, holding it close to his heart. Prussia gleamed, with bright eyes, tears almost forming, and a manic smile.

"Please Austria," he said, and bent down to one knee. His white 'wedding dress' wilted to the floor. "I don't care what your religion is. I don't care what a great big tool you are, sometimes. I don't even care if you're stuffy, and snobby, and wear coats from the 1800s. _Please_ Austria...marry me."


	8. A German and a Prussian Walk into a Bar

A dim-lit tavern illuminated only by the noon-day light pouring in through the row of low windows; not a single light shining down from overhead. Opening hour. The bar empty, except for a girl wiping down tabletops, humming, as if lost in pleasant thought, and a bartender rubbing the inside of shot glasses with a downy white cloth, and setting them out, in neat lines, for the post-lunch crowd he hoped would soon grace the hall. For now, he had only two patrons; at the long stretch of countertop, two men sat, bemoaning their lot, or so the barkeep assumed. Deeming them in need of a drink, after a long night of questionable activity. One too many skeletons in their closets? But just the right amount of ghosts at their bedside...

One man garbed in a tasteful blue dress shirt. Wide-backed, like an athlete; strong shoulders hunched, and every button fastened: even the collar button, despite its tendency to choke him about the neck. Rendering large swigs difficult to swallow. Nothing goes down easy this time of day, especially with a yammering sidekick a few inches away.

The second man, draped in a well-worn sweatshirt: faded red, and sleeves rolled up to reveal pale skin, and the words 'Kiss Me, I'm Prussian' imprinted on a black and white bracelet about his wrist. A yellow bird in his waistline pocket, and a smile on his face.

"And why the sudden interest in matrimony?" Germany asked, as he sipped his beer. Having forwent his morning coffee, for the sake of something stronger: God (or Rome or Fritz) knows he needed it.

"Rome says I have to live life to the fullest," Prussia said; mimicking his brother, and chugging his beer for breakfast. Ah, his first beer as a regular human. 'A pork chop in a can', as America called it. The breakfast of champions, or of heros who fear they'll someday fall or fail. Prussia sighed -- 'So much for a feast,' he thought -- but he lapped at the foam.

"Tastes better than ever!" he said.

Germany nudged his now 'only a human and nothing more' brother in the ribs.

Prussia whimpered.

"Finish your story," Germany said.

Prussia set the beer onto the counter, and smiled. "Well, Old Man Fritz said in order to do that, I should first get married, like a grownup."

Germany winced. "And so you thought Austria would make a good husband?!" he asked. "Forget the fact he's still a country, even if you're not, Brother...and..." Germany struggled for words. "You're both men!" he finally spouted.

"I know that, silly," said Prussia, patting his brother on the back. "You changed that rule, remember? And it's not like Austria and I can waltz down to the registrar's office, anyway. What with neither of us having a birth certificate."

Prussia hesitated a moment, fiddling with his bracelet; retrieving his mug, he hoisted it into the air. "But I'm sure you could come up with a license for us to sign! Something that looks official...you can do it, West!" he grinned. "And then Austria and I can have a ceremony at home, and worry about the legal stuff later."

Germany tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, as if trying to imagine all the paperwork he'd have to write, and how to word it -- how to forge it -- and the ceremony he'd be expected to plan, and he exhaled in resignation. "All right, fine. You're both men. You can get married. Of course I remember," he said. "But you two can't even stay in the same room without fighting!"

"We didn't fight in bed this morning," Prussia said.

"One peaceful moment in your whole life, and now you're rushing to get married," Germany sighed, drinking the last drop of his beer.

"My point is," Prussia continued, "Austria knows me better than anyone...except you, of course. And besides," he beamed, "it felt nice when he was holding me last night." Prussia leaned in close, and whispered, "I never felt so safe."

Germany shook his head and stopped it, by way of a hand to the face; rubbing down, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and shut his eyes, pained by his big brother: gullible enough to believe Austria a safe haven. 'That guy depends on _me_ for everything!' he thought. And perhaps it was an exaggeration, but in Germany's defense, a week or so past, Austria had called a mile from his mailbox, reporting himself lost, and unbeknownst to Prussia, Germany drove to Vienna, just to carry Austria back to the safety of his doorstep.

Prussia pulled away, and laughed. "It's funny, though," he said, "I never felt the need to be kept safe."

Prussia raised a finger, to order another beer, and put it on Germany's tab.

"But now, since I'm just a human, I want someone to feel safe with all the time."

Germany, frustrated over the fact Prussia's finger-point had failed to alert the barkeep, slapped his hand to the counter. "Two more over here!" he shouted. "And keep them coming," he mumbled.

Prussia turned his back to the bar, and used his elbows to prop himself up, and lean against it. "Ah, but...forget all that mushy stuff you saw in my bedroom," he said. "I don't want Austria to be the groom. I want to be the groom!"

"What difference does it make," grumbled Germany, drawing circles (that's the Earth!) on the wooden counter, using his finger, and the sweat shed by his mug; retracing the rings.

"Oh, Little Brother," Prussia lamented. "My poor, sweet, innocent West."

Prussia stared into the distance of the near-empty tavern, dreamy-eyed, as if he were about to impart some divine piece of wisdom. "You and I still need to have 'that talk', I guess," said Prussia, and he smirked. "Though you know, I do hear you and Cute Italy through the wall, sometimes."

Prussia winked, and ruffled Germany's hair.

West batted away his brother's hand.

"Brother, don't," he said, and in a hushed voice added, "we're in public."

Prussia spun round again, on the barstool, and lifted his new mug of beer to his mouth. "Ah well," he said, "I told Austria to go out, and buy a dress for himself, and a new corset if he wants it." Prussia lowered his voice, "You know he actually wears those things?!"

Germany grimaced, and began, "Yes, I...no, I mean." He growled, and suppressed any and every confession he was tempted to make. That infamous Buon San Valentino was a lifetime ago. No need to resurrect old ghosts now.

\-- Prussia rising from a deathbed into a human and 'normal' everyman existence was resurrection enough for one day!

"Anyway," Prussia said, "I told Austria he could spend a thousand euro on whatever he wanted." His words quickened, and he blushed, "I mean, it's not like you're hurting for money, right, Brother?" Prussia laughed uneasy. "You can fit the bill. You don't mind. I knew you wouldn't." _Ha ha ha._

"Fuck," said Germany.

Ignoring the profanity, Prussia continued with his eyes shut, and his hand raised, palm-side up, as if to say, 'No big deal.'

"And then of course there's the honeymoon, and we'll need a place to live, and..."

Germany leapt from his seat, and grabbed Prussia by the hood of his shirt. "I'm not paying for any of those! Austria has his own money, and a house, and...!!"

Germany 'exploded'; wilting to the barstool, he sat frozen. As the men in his mind scrambled with their new file, marked 'Big Brother asked Austria to marry him, and Austria said yes?!' while the men on his shoulders (one on each) poked at his cheeks with a tiny pitchfork and a magic wand respectively. Even if no one but Germany could see them. England the Angel hissed, 'Wake up, you big dummy!' And Devil America laughed, looking down and drooling, wanting to dive headfirst into a vat of beer.

Prussia hated to leave his favorite drinking buddy in such a state, but ah well; the clock was ticking! Even if no one but Prussia could hear it...

He eased from his seat, and scavenged his brother for a proper deposit. Slipping the Swiss-made watch from Germany's arm. Sliding it across the countertop to the bartender, as a down payment on their liquid breakfast.

"You keep that," said Prussia, nodding towards the watch. "And him too," he added, pointing to his motionless and bug-eyed, steaming, beloved West, and future best man.

The bartender flashed a worried grin, but lifting the watch -- holding it to his ear -- he waved 'good bye' in agreement.

"Great!" said Prussia, and as he pretended to rub his brother's back, he squeezed his hand into Germany's pant pocket, fishing out his brother's wallet, and the credit card he carried only in case of emergencies.

"I'm gonna go see if Austria needs help trying on wedding dresses!" he said to the oblivious waitress, as he ran from the bar, and onto the streets of Sunlit Berlin. Squinting, as the sudden light blinded him. Blending with the crowd? Never knowing how much he stood out. A shock of silver hair. Red-violet eyes. A yellow bird, as it lit to his head.

"It's gonna be perfect," he assured himself. Pacing along at an exuberant speed. Sneakers pounding on concrete, in rhythmic footfalls akin to a strong soldier marching. Whistling a battle song, he tugged at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, to straighten the fabric; convinced Fritz and Rome were watching, and they must be so proud, he thought.

"Quick! Someone praise me," he said, and Gilbird cheeped.

"Thank you, Friend," Prussia replied, and petted the bird, and then patted himself. A hand to his neck. "Every thing's gonna be fine now," he said. And catching sight of a bridal store on the horizon, he and Gilbird (and Rome and Fritz) believed it.


	9. Someone Old, Someone New...

Outside the bridal shop, Prussia stopped, and put his hands to the side of his face, to shade his eyes, and he pressed his nose against the glass, peering in through the window, past an ornate display of whites and soft blues.

"Fancy," he said, and watched as a young woman browsed dresses on racks, feeling fabric between her fingers; ignored by a lady at a desk, who wrote in a notebook with a pretentious quill pen. A silver chain around her neck, connected to slim glasses with bejeweled frames, resting on the bridge of her sharp, upturned nose.

Prussia entered the store, and a bell above the door jingled, and he shushed it. "It's not Christmastime, you know!"

The lady at the desk, glanced at the man who just walked in, and she stood, and studied him, dropping the feather-stalked pen, as if offended.

"You, Sir," she said.

Prussia 'hmm?'-ed, and looked around in all directions; his eyes wide, as he halted his survey of the soft-lit room, and pointed to his chest.

"Me, Sir?" he asked.

The lady nodded, and walked towards him. "Just what can I do for you?" she asked.

Prussia crossed his arms, and laughed. "Well, you see," he began, "I just became a man today, and now I've got to get married! So that smug aristocrat was supposed to come here, and buy a big, billowy, marshmallowy dress. Like that one!" he said, pointing to a wedding gown, in the center of the store, on an elevated island, donned by a faceless mannequin, whose hands were on her hips, and Prussia thought her far too cocky and sassy, for a girl without any features, save her porcelain, Austria-esque, 'shut-in' complexion. "What a snob!" Prussia said.

"Excuse me?!" asked the lady.

"Oh no, I didn't mean you," Prussia said, his voice becoming shrill. "I meant that oversized doll over there." He motioned towards the mannequin, and stuck out his tongue at it. "She thinks she's better than us. Don't you, you..." Prussia mumbled some profanity-laced insult beneath his breath.

"Listen," the lady said, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Prussia whimpered. "BUT AUSTRIA IS COMING HERE TO BUY A DRESS AND A SEXY CORSET FOR OUR SEXY HONEYMOON!!" he shouted. "I can't just leave without paying for them..."

Prussia wiggled his brow, and from his wallet withdrew a credit card -- Germany's credit card -- and flashed it at her, knowing a money-lover when he spotted one. "Now can I?" he added. "No. You wouldn't like that."

Prussia shook his head, as he put the credit card away, and smirked. Never modest when a battle had been won. When victory was his.

Sure enough, the lady forced a small laugh, and a fake smile. "Well," she said, "as much as I'd LOVE to assist you," she peered at her fingernails while she spoke, "I REALLY don't think your fiancée is coming here."

"Oh?" Prussia asked. "And why is that, Your Majesty?"

The lady's fake smile disappeared in an instant, as she peered at him, wearied again, due to the odd nickname Prussia had given her. "Because," she said, "our clientele can shop by appointment only. And...no one named 'Austria' is on today's register."

"Well," said Prussia, as if lost in deep thought, "perhaps he used a fake name...I mean, uh, no man has an appointment today??"

"A man?!" laughed the woman. A real laugh: high-pitched, and upper crust, and just who did this lady think she was?! Laughing at Prussia's fiancé...a word Prussia hated. Bridegroom sounded better, or Groombride, or...whatever the hell Austria was to him now.

"My Groomgroom," Prussia said to himself, as he finally realized the most apt term to use, and he smiled: a soft smile, beaming.

"Although," the lady said, pretending to wipe a laugh-induced tear from her eye, "there is a charming couple in the fitting rooms, right now. A long-married, and well-dressed pair hoping to renew their vows. HE," the lady enunciated with the most puke-worthy reverence, "is the only man we've had present all afternoon." She studied Prussia up and down, cringing at his sloppy attire, and windblown hair. "Except for YOU, of course..."

"Yes, except for me," Prussia said, and he made a beeline for the fitting rooms.

"Just where do you think you're going?" the lady called.

"I'm going to ask this guy if he knows my guy," Prussia said.

He rushed around the corner, into the back of the store, and atop a bench, beside a wide shut door, sat Hungary.

***

Prussia approached with caution. Steadied his stride, and plucked Gilbird from his head, to hide the bird in the safety of his pocket. Half-expecting a frying pan to come swinging out, from behind Hungary's back. Sitting so coy; her legs crossed. Was she a lady, or a fighting machine? A battle-ax. Austria's old battle-ax. A soft green dress, with frills around the shoulders, and what did Prussia care what she was wearing? What did he care, if she had high heels on her dangling feet, and pearls on her neck. 'What's with this get-up?' Prussia thought. 'Is she a warrior, or a housewife. Ex-housewife.' Ex-warrior. No one was fighting world wars, anymore. No one was an empire, or married to an empire. Divorces, dissolutions, losses. Divided and fallen.

"Hello, Little Girl," Prussia said.

Hungary cringed, but managed a smile.

"Well, if it isn't the human apeman," she joked. "How are you, Prussia? Ready to join the circus, yet?" she asked; hands on her knees; wide-eyed, and with a playful yet patronizing grin, as if speaking to a small child. "I'm sure they could use you for the sideshow. Now that you'll need a job, and all."

Prussia leaned against the wall, and tried to look cool. Running his fingers through his hair; slicking it back like West. Everyone was fond of West, so why not.

"Who said any thing about getting a job?" he asked. Then mumbling to himself, "Fritz didn't mention that part..."

Hungary stood, and set her purse on the bench.

\-- 'She's carrying a purse now?!' Prussia thought.

"Well, sure," she said, biting her words, "how do you expect to support your future HUSBAND?"

Prussia laughed, but clenched his teeth -- speaking through them, to match Hungary's tone -- leaning forward, he retorted, "I don't have to support him. He's got legs, doesn't he?"

Hungary growled, and stepped closer. Two wrestlers trash-talking before the real fight; the throw-down; one of them on their back, and crying mercy, while the other laughed, and surely if Germany were present, and not half-comatose, in HRE/Chibitalia nostalgia mode, in a tavern downtown, he'd once again referee, and count to ten; if Austria weren't in the dressing room, trying on women's bridal gowns, he'd watch with quiet indifference, and not cheer or complain; protesting only by way of ignoring the whole thing. Neither would get his attention, nor his affection, and wouldn't that eat them both alive.

Austria would win.

"You're not seriously going to let Mr. Austria marry you," Hungary said.

"Why wouldn't I?" asked Prussia. He raised his chin, and smirked with a near-fang showing on one side of his mouth. "If he wants to, why not."

Hungary's facade of trying to one-up the newfound 'regular guy' faded, and she turned, returning to the bench, but only to retrieve her purse. Soft, and tired; defeated perhaps, she said, "If you really think he wants to marry you, you're crazier than I thought."

Prussia stood as if trying to decipher a code; was she speaking in riddles?! He rubbed his elbow, and peered at her, shortsighted; watching as she walked towards him, and then past.

"Wait a second," he said, reaching out, but careful not to touch her arm. Just a gesture of 'stop in your tracks; this isn't over yet. Not by a long shot.'

"I don't know what you mean by that," he admitted.

"You want me to draw a picture, so big studly Prussia can understand it?"

"Yeah, that might help...actually," he said. And grinned. Damn right studly! His ego inflated: at least she was good for something, he thought, other than singing (questionable) lullabies.

"But enough with the flattery," he said. "Tell me, what did you mean by 'Austria doesn't want to marry me'??"

Hungary sighed, and shifted her purse from her shoulder to her hands; digging through it, she retrieved her cell phone. "Here," she said, holding the phone to Prussia's face.

Displayed on the screen was a string of text messages sent from Austria to Hungary.

"Is it really okay if I read this??" Prussia asked.

Hungary nodded, and tapped her foot. Late for a meeting or a bus or a train. Hopefully back to her own country, thought Prussia, as he took the phone from her hands, and scrolled through the conversation.

After reading for a moment...

"So what?! Big deal!!" Prussia said, tossing the phone to Hungary. He turned, and marched towards the fitting room door. Banging on it, he screamed, "Hey, open up, You!"

Hungary bit her lip, and hated to be the bearer of bad news, but what Austria did with his life was still her business. Marriage or no marriage, they were still best friends. Prussia could find anyone in the world now. Anyone to marry; any regular girl or guy, or whatever Prussia preferred. Hungary never quite understood that part of it. He seemed to like her, until he found out she was female. And he never liked Italy, until he knew he was male. Maybe Prussia had a thing for androgyny. Or maybe just Cute Italians, and Austria cross-dressing. (God, yes, cross-dressing!) But not a love for women who are strong, and can take care of themselves; but -- to put it kindly -- for men who require assistance. Not a damsel in distress, but a prince in need of having his boots tied; a Little Master in need of a human piano bench when he's tired.

"I was just trying to help," said Hungary, as she walked away; through the store, and out the door, and the bell above jingled, signaling the forfeit.

"I TOLD YOU TO OPEN UP, DAMN IT!" Prussia shouted, pounding his fist against the wall.

Austria opened the door, only inches, and peered out. "Before you say anything, I..."

Prussia shoved the door with his forearm, pushing Austria out of the way. The latter stumbled backwards. Barefoot. Wearing a white silk dress: plain and straight-cut. As simple a dress as he and Hungary could find.

"Well that doesn't look like a marshmallow at all!" Prussia whined.

Yet he smiled, and the disappointment and anger melted. "But you tried," he added. "I'm glad you tried."

Prussia shut the door to the fitting room, and turned, arms outstretched, not only to greet the other man, but to cop a feel of the silky dress (sure, it wasn't marshmallowy enough, but still, it was soft!). Hugging his groom-to-be, despite Austria's resistance.

"Careful," Austria said, shrugging, and ducking down, to ease himself away from Prussia's body. "You might wrinkle it, or get it dirty." He sniffed. "You smell like a barroom."

Prussia smiled. "And what else should I smell like on my wedding day?"

Austria smoothed out the fabric of his dress, and laughed that odd little laugh, when he doesn't know what else to do or say. "Perhaps we should wait a while," he said. "We could always wait 'til winter, and then go some place warm for the honeymoon! It would make it a nicer break, don't you think?"

Prussia made sure the door was locked behind him; reaching back, without looking, he fumbled for the latch; twisting it tight. He spoke almost robotically: "No I do not think." He didn't feel a thing, nor fear it. Hungary made up that string of text messages; somehow, she invented it! Of course Austria wanted to marry him. It wasn't for Prussia's happiness. It wasn't for fear of Prussia finding no one else in this world. Man or woman, in any clothing. In need of anything! Austria wanted to marry him, and he wanted to do it as soon as possible, Prussia was sure of it. And no matter: the door was locked, and there was no way Austria was getting past him now. -- So what if Austria was scared Prussia wouldn't be able to fulfill his first step of 'living life to the fullest' without Austria's 'help'. He wasn't a charity case. He was still Prussia, God damn it! And he was gonna win, if they had to stay in that snooty bridal shop's dressing room all fucking day. If Austria didn't realize how lucky he was, to have Prussia as a fiancé, "I guess I'll just have to convince you," he said.

Once Austria had a taste of the honeymoon, surely he'd be rushing towards the altar, too. Prussia was flawless! A cocked head. A wide grin. "Why don't you slip off that dress, now, huh?" He leaned over, and took a white satin corset from a hook on the wall. "I want to see if this fits you, instead."


	10. Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Austria slipped the wedding dress, strap by strap, from his shoulders, and down his body, wiggling a bit, to free it past his hips. Revealing a pair of plaid boxer shorts, probably dating from the 1980s. Probably a gift. Probably purchased by Hungary.

He stepped from the dress, foot by foot, one leg at a time; balancing himself, by placing his palm on the mirror, and 'Don't touch! You'll get handprints on it!!' surely Germany would say, if he were present, and not elsewhere, half-comatose, or awake by now, but drowning in beer.

Prussia stood watching, with a raised chin and an open mouth; his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. And he might as well have licked his lips. The wolf before the feast. To control Austria, not by use of hands or weapons, but by words. Stark commandments. No sword or gun; zero bloodshed. Just badgering. A verbal assault disguised as honey-dripped compliments. Soon to attract, Prussia hoped, the equivalent of a swarm of ants: small tinges of pain. Bites on the neck. Fingers on thighs. Teeth-marks to later hide behind well-starched cravats. To feed on Austria's flesh before the ceremony; the 'official' union. The taste-test before the consummation; before the marriage could even begin.

\-- Whatever he needed to do, to prove what a worthwhile husband he'd be...and how much _fun_ they could have.

"Yeah, you look great like that," said Prussia, "but you'll look even better in the corset."

He continued on, gleaming, and gloating. Hoping to prompt Austria's every move with flattery and exaggerated enthusiasm...

"I can't believe how good you'll look! You're gonna drive me crazy, Austria. I love corsets! I can't believe you enjoy wearing them. I'm such a lucky guy!" Prussia laughed. "And since you enjoy it, I guess we're both in luck, huh? You won't complain, and I'll eat it up!!"

Prussia smiled: the confidence in knowing he had secured his next meal. A deplumed sitting duck. Almost right in his hands.

Moving in for the kill...Prussia unfastened the corset from its hanger, and nudged the garment towards his half-naked fiancé, who was familiar enough with such things to be comfortable, but...never had he worn one for someone else's enjoyment. Only for his own.

Austria accepted the garment, but hesitated, by raising it to his body, and peering at his reflection in the hand-smudged mirror, as if trying to gain an idea of how it would look on him, once fastened.

"You want me to help lace it up?" Prussia asked, full-blown smirk.

"Well, that depends," said Austria. "Do you plan to use your fingers...or your teeth?"

Two could play this game...Austria may have been a 'sitting duck' in the eyes of Prussia, but he was no lame duck, _deplumed_ or not; he still had a hand to play! As he stepped into the corset, and pulled it up slow. What a cocky Little Master: playing Prussia, like a concert pianist plunking the keys of a toy piano. -- How easy.

"Do you really think it will look good on me?" he said. "I'm afraid I'm not as fit as I used to be..."

Fishing for more, and Prussia spewing it out like a broken fountain. Drenching Austria in reassurance. Stepping forward, and both men had their hands on the corset, and 'too many cooks in the kitchen'...spoil the foreplay??

"Don't pull the laces so tight! You'll tear them!!" scolded Austria.

"Well, what do you expect?" asked Prussia. "Suck in your stomach more."

"So you DO think I've grown soft around the middle!" whined Austria.

"I DIDN'T SAY THAT!!" screamed Prussia.

Footsteps sounded in the hall of the otherwise unoccupied fitting rooms.

"Is every thing all right back here?" asked the lady from the front desk.

Prussia quivered. "Austria, it's that faceless mannequin! She's come to look down on us, for not being fake!!"

The lady lingered near the door of the last fitting room; the only one with costumers present; the only shut door. She rapped against it with the back of her hand, and fiddled with the latch. "Do you men need some help?" she asked. "Or perhaps I could show you the exit."

"Uh," Prussia stammered, "we've already seen it, but thank you very much, Miss Mannequin."

Prussia whispered to Austria, "I wonder if she's naked."

Austria let go the corset strings, and with a stone-cold glare, peered into the eyes of his shaking fiancé. "Why on earth would she be naked?!"

Prussia grabbed one of the corset strings, and nibbled on it. "Because!" he said. "Because she's a mannequin, and maybe someone stole her dress...I bet it was Hungary! I bet she ran off with it, so I can't marry you!! So she can marry you, instead!!!"

"Hungary marry me, or the mannequin?" Austria asked, almost laughing at his own question, as he tugged the wet corset string from Prussia's mouth. He felt inclined to pat Prussia on the head, for being such a good dog; as if the corset string was lost, and Prussia had retrieved it, like a stick Austria had thrown. And despite Prussia's usual naughtiness, surely he was a good dog at heart. Yes, that must be it. Only a pure heart would imagine such silly things, as walking-talking mannequins.

"If we get out of here alive," said Prussia, grasping Austria's partially-cinched waist, "I promise I'll buy you the biggest diamond you've ever seen!" His eyes went wide, and shone with genuine enthusiasm. "Unless you'd rather have one of those Austrian Crystals they're always hawking on the At-Home Shopping Network. Hmm..." Prussia mumbled, as if contemplating his next big purchase via Germany's 'borrowed' credit card. (Poor Germany.)

"Um, sorry Miss Mannequin, but Austria and I need a few more minutes to think about it!"

The lady huffed. "But I do believe your WIFE has left without you, Mr. Edelweiss."

"'Edelweiss??" Prussia mouthed, leaning his head near Austria's ear, as if they were huddled in a football match, discussing how to defeat their opponent, be it the Snooty Saleslady, or Hungary with a stolen dress, or the assumed-to-be now animate and articulate mannequin.

"Yes," said Austria, a smooth swift liar on his feet, "my wife went to the flower shop. My butler here will assist me from now on."

"Ah," sighed the lady, "I knew he must be hired help."

She stepped away from the door of the fitting room, and wandered back to her perch at the desk. "Must be a charity case, hired straight from the insane asylum!" she said. "Must have stole that credit card from that nice gentleman."

The 'nice gentleman' Germany would agree. Though not many dubbed him a gentleman in the past. Whether he deserved to be dubbed one or not. Nowadays, he was most deserving of such praise. But the gentleman in question; the one referred to by the lady at the desk, who scribbled dollar signs in blue ink on the pink pages of her clientele register -- the lady's gentleman was Austria. And he was too busy being laced into a satin corset, by Prussia, to worry from where the funds were coming; as long as they came, and quick, and this wedding business was finalized.

Maybe it was the sight of Prussia -- who had resumed his work with the corset -- leaning in close with narrowed eyes, and those long fingers working their way past eyelets, filling them with satin cords; pushing in, and pulling out, and gentle tugs, to tighten the garment, but...no matter what inspired the change of heart (or mind, or body), to Austria: eaten alive on a rushed honeymoon in autumn, versus waiting 'til winter, suddenly didn't sound like an unappetizing prospect.

After all, he had said 'Yes' that morning, to Prussia's proposal, and he had said it quiet, and with many reasons, none of which he mentioned; at least not to Prussia. And only a handful of the reasons did he mention to Hungary. But, after saying yes, and leaving Germany's home to bathe, dress, and shop, Austria hadn't paid much thought to what would lie after-the-fact. Only to the wedding at hand, and not the honeymoon, or even more daunting: the actual marriage. To this man standing before him; to this man he had known for centuries. But how little he knew of him in private...only friendship, strained by teasing, and mooching, and turbulent holidays as so-called distant relatives (in namesake only, for their kindred blood as nations), yet now...behind closed doors. Seeing him in a new light. (Dull florescent? Well. That, too. But no...) As a civilian. As a regular human being, with wants and needs, and not just an enemy to bicker with. Without pity for the worried look in Prussia's eyes when he first barreled into that dressing room. The look Prussia was so desperate to hide beneath a brutish veneer: the one Austria, of all people, was adept at recognizing. And this clumsy attempt to make Austria 'want' him, by way of flattery, was laughable! As if waking up together wasn't enough to pique Austria's interest. But...to be close to him, and knowing he could do or say anything he wished; things he had suppressed in the past, for the sake of their feuding. For the fun in fighting! For the full weight, at times, of warfare on their shoulders, and...

Austria smiled. "I think it fits like a dream."

Peering not at the corset on his body, or at Prussia's handiwork, or even at the face of the man in front of him, but at their shared reflection in the mirror, no matter how smudged.

"A bit itchy, though," he added, pretending the corset chafed him; he twitched, and scratched at his side.

\-- Any excuse to complain!

"But I'm sure I'll get used to it," Austria said. "Just give me time."


	11. What's in a Name?

In the bridal store fitting room, Prussia skimmed the silky fabric of the corset with both sweating palms. From its bottom hem, to its top hem. Austria's entire torso graced by the hands of the country he once dubbed his worst enemy, now, no matter how secretive, or reluctant in his admission as to 'why', Austria called him fiancé. The man he would soon marry -- and so what if he told Hungary it was only for Prussia's happiness? What was wrong with that??

Prussia had thought it a sweet gesture, no matter how much of a charity case he feared Austria viewed him as. The main source of Prussia's anger and disappointment was in Austria telling the whole story to Hungary!

But with the door locked behind him, and Austria staring into his eyes, Prussia's words were soft; his gaze sincere...

"So you only brought Hungary here to help you shop?" he asked. Standing with a firm grip; his hands about Austria's waistline as if Prussia's fingers were a poor man's belt; careful, though, of the laced-up strings in the center of the corset. No need to undo or tarnish his own hard work.

Prussia ran his hands to the small of Austria's back. To wrap his arms around the country he would wed, just as soon as Germany could figure out a way to 'prove' the two men were regular people, with birth certificates, and other such proper ID. Marriage licenses can't forge themselves, you know.

Leave it all to Germany. Dear, Beloved West, and we're gathered here today, to unite in Holy Matrimony, one official country, and one ex-country/newfound regular human.

How to 'prove' it, though, and what would their names be?

What letters in what arrangement would spell 'Prussia' for the rest of his existence? For his remaining days?? What would be etched on his tombstone. Entered into the hallowed halls of Heaven: spray-painted on the gate. 'Prussia was here', with the dedication, the footnote; the amendment: 'Prussia, also known as...'

Blank.

Prussia's mind was elsewhere. His hands roaming, and steady.

Austria stood stiff-backed, blushing, as if he were a virgin; yet a playful, albeit slight, smile emerged, speaking volumes of the temptation to forgo his cold feet, and give in to Prussia's physical display of affection, despite Austria's overall doubts of matrimony -- his selfless gift to a once-enemy, now friend; now fiancé! The sudden engagement...and no, Austria was no virgin. Not everyone lived Prussia's religious, sheltered upbringing. Subjected to years of 'Do what you want, but at the end, you'll have to answer to God'.

And Prussia had spent many a day and night sobbing at an altar.

'Dear God, I think I might have done something wrong...' he'd cry. A little boy in white. A teenager in black. Always with crosses adorning his tunic; his cape.

Austria always wore a silver cross around his neck. Perhaps Prussia had stripped him, that one Christmas holiday, to remind Austria, If you keep your cross hidden behind old coats and cravats, how will the world know what kind of man you are, and what you're made of?

But no. Of course that wasn't his reason! Prussia had a longstanding yen for Austria's body, and an odd association in his mind -- his childlike, yet brutal at times, mentality -- of relating nudity to shame. To be naked was akin to walking the streets alone. To reveal bare skin was to reveal the bare soul, and to be stripped of everything equals lonesomeness.

And Prussia was a lonely man. Stripped of everything, in modern day; even his country's good (once glorious, later badgered) name; an infamous title, wiped clean from Modern Europe, and why not strip Austria, then? That holiday night, he and Hungary were out shopping, and to see Austria buy that cute little hat for her. Why not buy Prussia a gift?! He liked cute things!

He liked Austria.

And to strip him clean of his clothes then...to strip him clean now.

_'How's it feel! Feels bad, doesn't it!! Now you know how it feels to be alone!!'_

Those words spoken only moments after Prussia had gloated: _'I'm so happy being alone.'_

Ah, but that was all ancient history...in Prussia's heart; in reality, it was somewhat recent. But no matter.

In the dressing room, Austria slid his own hands to Prussia's neck, and worked his fingers past the hood of Prussia's zip-up sweatshirt, into the silver wisps of hair.

Prussia, who was somewhat taller than his fiancé (Austria guessed it was by a single inch; Prussia knew it was one and a quarter inch exactly!), nudged his nose down into the wave of Austria's hair -- that arch of bangs the latter spent half an hour every morning, styling with heat and brushes and sprays -- and nuzzled, gracing his way down, via kisses to Austria's forehead, the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose. The tip.

"I've never even kissed you before," Prussia said.

"I've never kissed you before, either," said Austria, attempting to joke.

Prussia withdrew his left hand from Austria's back, and placed his thumb on the center of Austria's lower lip. He petted, but then pulled.

Austria asked, his words a bit lisped, "Is this a dental examination?"

Prussia smiled, almost laughed, and nodded. "It might be," he said.

Raising his chin; striking Diplomatic Pose #67. A Prussian-brand of speciality poses, used to impress inferiors; 'Look at my proud glare, and cocky demeanor! My mischievous face!! I taught me that face. I taught it to West, too.'

"I am your dentist now," said Prussia.

And the voice of Teutonic Knights ever-imprinted in Prussia's brain, came seeping through -- 'I am so awesome, and I can do anything!' -- and Prussia grinned over the thought of a lost, and loveless youth. Delighted by the opportunity, at present, to make up for lost time!

"I am Dr. Fritzy von Fritz N. Schnitzels," he said, beaming. "You can't have clean teeth, unless you let Prussia...I mean...Dr. Fritz N. Schnitzels examine them."

Prussia leaned in closer, peering into Austria's mouth; using his thumb to pry his lower lip further down.

"Open wide," Prussia said. "Be a good little Austria..."

Austria laughed, but the crinkle he gets between his brows when he doesn't know WHAT to make of Prussia and his antics -- or Prussia annoys or angers him -- appeared, and he spoke as if his tongue were made of cotton: "Yes, Dr. Fritz."

"Mm, hmm," Prussia said, examining the inside of Austria's mouth; smiling all the while. "Well," he finally concluded, pulling away, pretending to remove a pair of rubber gloves from his hands. "You have five million cavities, and your breath smells like coffee."

Austria huffed, but for the sake of playing along; for the sake of his fiancé's apparent amusement; for the sake of standing in a corset and boxers, in a snooty bridal store dressing room, with only a discarded and decidedly un-marshmallowy dress, and shed everyday clothes, and pair of parked shoes, and a mirror to keep them company, Austria asked, "Well, what would you recommend, Dr. Fritz?"

"Is there a cure for five million cavities, and coffee breath?" Prussia pondered. "Well...you could always try kissing me." Prussia shrugged. "That might help."

"It might," said Austria.

Prussia shut his eyes, and sped in for their first kiss so fast, and with such enthusiasm, he nearly hit his teeth, and wouldn't it have been funny: had he busted his teeth, and had to go see a real dentist, on the verge of his and Austria's wedding and honeymoon weekend? And he could fight with the dentist over who had received the most training; years spent slaving in dental school, and God knows damn well Prussia hadn't spent a single day studying dentistry! 

But that wouldn't stop him from fighting about it.

Every thing was a game...

Ah, but, despite the rough landing, Austria's lips served as a soft runway, and they kissed.

And despite Austria's so-called five million cavities and coffee breath, Prussia thought it sweet.

To say nothing of Prussia's beer breath! But Austria 'mmm'-ed contented.

The intermingling taste of coffee and beer, thanks to their respective liquid breakfasts. Perhaps once the two were married, they would take up drinking Irish coffee! Drinking it from matching mugs, bearing their new names; or forget the rush, and _eat_ breakfast, on lazy Sunday mornings, with newspapers crinkling, a stack of coupons, an open diary, and a dog or a cat, or a child, at the foot of their bed.

An ex-country could dream, couldn't he? Oh, the 'normal' things in life. To fulfill a destiny as a country was no longer of Prussia's concern. He had a lifetime behind him. And a lifetime ahead.

And his hands on Austria's cheeks. Bumped noses, and warm breath. And if tongues could wear tap-shoes, well...maybe they would have danced?? A regular Fred and Ginger! As if parted lips, and open mouths could serve as a ballroom. Yet only a 'professional' like Dr. Fritz could tell you for sure.

But, doing whatever they wished, with their tongues and their hands, the two leaned against the wall of the fitting room, and slid to the floor, wilting into a heap of centuries worth of pent-up emotions; replacing the rage of 'I want to crush that man with my bare hands!' with a more cherished thought of 'I just want to hold him'.

A gift from God or Rome or the real Fritz: to give Prussia the added time, to realize, Not all things in life are worth fighting about. Not all people are your enemies. There is no glory in lonesomeness.

But again, there is no shame.

And with his hands, Prussia began to undo the corset strings, or hell, maybe he used his teeth.

What would a real dentist say? 'Don't chew on anything except food!' But ah, the strings were soft, and so was Austria's skin, as he wrapped his legs around Prussia's waist, sitting atop his lap, and Prussia may have nipped his teeth against Austria's neck.

"Don't bite," Austria said.

And Prussia smiled: a playful puppy, and Austria, with his cute little pouty kitten-face, thought Prussia. And he couldn't kiss it enough! And so Prussia kept shifting his attention from one direction of Austria's body to the next. To free the damn corset, he had worked so hard to get Austria fastened into, or to paw his fiancé's high cheekbones, or run his thumb across that flawless jawline, or...all the places he was never allowed to explore before, it was his. It was all his. And he wanted to write his name on it with a pen.

Maybe Rome could drop a felt marker from Heaven!

'Prussia was never here before, but guess what? I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere.' Surely it would fit. Somewhere. On some inch of Austria's body, he could write it. Or barring that, he could lick it. Spell it out with his busy tongue. Dip it in a well of permanent ink, and scrawl it longways across Austria's collar bone. From one well-kissed shoulder to the other. Where no devils nor angels perched to judge them.


	12. Closing the Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A common superstition...
> 
> If someone loans a pocket knife to you, always pass it back in the condition in which you received it. If the knife is open when they hand it to you, use the knife, and return it open. If they hand it to you closed, and you open it yourself, make sure you close it back, before returning it. If not, bad luck will befall you both, and the owner of the knife may suffer injury from the blade, or lose the knife forever.

Prussia and Austria arose from the floor of the Snooty Bridal Store fitting room. Prussia smoothing his hair, tugging at his black t-shirt, and fastening his pants. A grin on his face.

Austria in his underwear.

Gilbird sleeping in the pocket of Prussia’s sweatshirt: the one Prussia had cast aside, while overheated. It laid in the corner, atop Austria’s shoes.

"Get dressed," Prussia said, "and meet me out front."

He leaned over and scooped up his shirt, folding it neatly, and draping it over his elbow like a mom with a spit-up rag. Then he snatched the corset, and plucked the plain wedding gown with his thumb and forefinger, as if lifting a bag of trash.

"Can you believe they charge this much for an overgrown tube sock?" Prussia asked.

Austria shrugged. Slid his arms into his shirtsleeves. Buttoning his buttons, and tying his cravat. He agreed the dress was far too overpriced; he could sew a better one himself, and save a fortune in the process. And he fell silent (or remained silent; not in the mood for chitchat) wishing he had thought of it in the first place! He could have stayed home all day, in the comfort of his sitting room, lying on a sofa, sipping tea, and eating sweets, and sewing his own dress. ‘Oh, why didn’t I think of that?!’

Austria grumbled, as he stepped into his pants, and slipped them to his waist.

"You mad about something?" Prussia asked. He reached for the latch of the door. Perhaps Austria wanted to get dressed in private? ‘Not the way he undressed, though,’ Prussia thought. ‘Not alone.’ And a folding knife should be closed only by the person who opened it. Returned, the way it was received. And of course, Austria had shed his everyday clothes, _before_ Prussia had entered the picture. Barged into the fitting room. Did Hungary help Austria out of his clothes, and into his dress? Zip it up proper? Do overpriced tube socks made of silk even have zippers?? Prussia didn’t feel one the first time he touched it, and he didn’t want to check now, lest he have to wash his hands. And maybe Austria should find a sink. Good thing he wears gloves. And Prussia’s mind wandered…finally settling in on the thought of ‘Upright Austria’. So quick to dish it out, but so easy to offend. And God knows Austria always acted sheepish after getting too close to someone…the way he made a beeline for the bedroom door, that morning, after waking up shirtless with Prussia in his arms.

"You didn’t have to do all that, you know," Prussia said, dangling the dress. Feeling in debt. Feeling a wave of heat return to his face; blushing, and now who’s sheepish…

"Well, I wanted to give you _something_ ," Austria said. He tucked in his shirt, and finally raised his chin to meet the eyes of Prussia, who had one leg past the door, and the other leg holding it ajar. "You seemed to be in such a rush to get close to me," Austria said. "I didn’t want you to leave here feeling empty-handed."

"But both my hands are full!" Prussia said, and he kneed the door open wide again, and smiled, uplifting the two delicate garments, as if showing them off, for a Snooty Bridal Store advertisement. "You should worry more about how full my new life is!" he said. "Not my hands. Or any other part of me. Besides," he rambled on, "it was _your_ …"

"FINE," said Austria, cutting short Prussia’s incriminating reminder. "Just go and settle things, yes?"

Prussia nodded, holding his sweatshirt, swinging the corset, and letting the dress drag the floor. “Yes, I’ll go and have my snooty receptionist write a bill for your teeth cleaning.”

***

Prussia sauntered to the front desk, and purchased the corset with Germany’s credit card. He kept the plain white wedding gown hidden behind his back, until the transaction was complete, and then he tossed it onto the desk.

The Snooty Saleslady took one look at it, and turned up her nose. “And you’ll be paying for that, too,” she said, pointing to the crumpled dress.

"But it’s not even marshmallowy!" Prussia complained.

"Be that as it may," the lady began, "you’ve obviously managed to ruin it. You MUST pay for it."

"Well, _I_ didn’t ruin it," Prussia said, leaning forward, pressing his palms to the desk. "Austria ruined it! It’s all his fault!!"

"How can an entire country ruin a dress?" the lady said, scoffing, and shaking her head; a smug smile, as she ran her fingers across the fabric, as if to inspect it. Her face grew pale. Her smug smile faded. "And why on earth is it wet?!" she screeched.

Prussia’s eyes went wide. “Well, you see, that snobby mannequin of yours came back there, and sneezed all over it!”

And in that moment, Austria appeared from the row of fitting rooms located in the back of the store: pulling on his gloves, and he waved his hand.

Prussia spotted him, and grabbed Germany’s credit card from the desk, and the dainty bag — topped with lace; a pink ribbon serving as its handle — from the grasp of the lady, who looked to be lost in a stupor of shock and horror.

Prussia sprinted across the floor, to join his fiancé. "Quick, Austria!" he said. "Before that mannequin gives us both pneumonia!!" And the two ran laughing like a couple of rambunctious kids. Austria as the Tom Sawyer, to Prussia’s Huckleberry Finn. Instead of whitewashing a fence, however, they whitewashed an expensive bridal gown. As if it wasn’t already white…the color of purity, and by the time they were through, there wasn’t much ‘pure’ left about it. Though some semblance remained; Austria offered a mile, and Prussia took an inch. (Or received one.) An unexpected gentleman.

And the two joined hands. Exiting the store, and the bell above jingled. Signaling the arrival of the engaged to be married men, onto the streets of Berlin. Sun setting, and a dismal array of clouds blowing in, to make the sky hazy and stained, like an inkblot test upon a psychologist's desk; the test covered in a box of crayons left melting beneath the harsh light of a bent-neck lamp. Oranges and purples, with black underneath.

Prussia smiled. “You’re not going to believe it,” he said, “but I wanted to give _you_ a taste of the honeymoon, not vice versa.”

Austria scuffed along in his tasteful brown shoes and an overcoat of deep blue-violet (grape juicy, Prussia called it). An autumn breeze stinging his pores like well-placed ice picks poking at his cheeks. Eyes burning, and watering, and he couldn’t seem to focus. Thankful for the glasses he didn’t need. Thankful for something to protect him from the elements. The chill of the air, and the night settling in, and for whatever madness it may bring. What an air of unexpectedness, Austria thought. To be close to someone now, who is no longer a country. Who can do as he likes, and can live as he pleases.

"I didn’t want one," Austria said. "I just want you to enjoy this."

And as they passed store windows, Prussia watched their reflections change shape. Two unstructured figures in a hall of mirrors. In a fun house, at a carnival, and most the other kids have gone home. And long into the night, floors creak, and voices echo. The fun of the children; paid admission; carnival rides, covered in grease, and sticky fingers. The smoke of cigarettes hanging from the mouths of the ride operators, and there’s nothing left now, but paper trails. Shed wrappers from treats long ago eaten, and have now festered into bellyaches. Into the knots in the stomaches of kids too scared to tell their parents, they had fun at the carnival, sure, but by the end, they felt dizzy and almost sick; too nervous, once strapped in for a good time. They only spent their money, and rode the rides, because they had to prove to their friends just how big and brave they were. Once strapped in, they had to go through with it! Of course it wouldn't stop them, if allowed, from going back to the carnival later in the night. Hand stamped to permit a second passage: assuming the carnival stuck around. And despite any ensuing embarrassment, surely Prussia had enjoyed whatever Austria had dished out, because it was nice to kiss and be held by a man whom he long thought hated him. And for good reason. To hold a man he couldn’t hold, for so many reasons, too long to list. For so many years, dreams were locked away into holding cells. Diaries. War trenches. Behind walls. Beneath blacked-out text. Censored lines. Everything held back for the sake of nations doing whatever was expected of them, and best for their country; their future; their people. But to live a life of free will. To live like a carnival set up on a whim, and leave town when the fun is over, and the night has passed; to leave once the kids were gone, and the house of mirrors empty. Past long panes of glass, and the reflections change shape, and shift into unfathomable figures of blurred outlines: only blots of color, and ideas of faces.

Prussia stopped and glared into the glass of a pawn shop with a closed sign hung about its door knob. “You’d think a pawn shop would stay open all night,” he said. His palm clenched tight to Austria’s. Clenching tighter. “You never know when someone might want to trade something in, for something better.”

Austria gazed at the man beside him, and not at the reflection: not at the somewhat silly faces Prussia was making in the glass. At himself. To lighten his mood, but failed to do so.

"I think people should be happy with what they have," Austria said. "Make the best of it."

"Of course you’d say something like that," Prussia laughed, as he pulled away from his makeshift mirror, and tugged at Austria, to continue their jaunt. "Mr. ‘I’m gonna repair everyone’s torn-up underpants’! Can’t throw anything away…can’t let anything go."

"You can fix the old broken stuff. No need to sell it for a piece of junk," said Austria, imagining pawning his assorted knickknacks for the sake of buying…what? A wedding gown?? Silk for making a wedding gown? Well, now there’s an idea…and he made a mental note of the pawn shop’s address. Thinking he’d still have time to buy or make a wedding dress, if that was indeed what Prussia wanted him to wear for their future wedding ceremony. ‘As soon as possible,’ Prussia had said, that very morning, as Austria backed away from him, and his proposal. Never turning around; never facing away; walking out of the bedroom backwards, as Prussia stood from kneeling; as Prussia gleamed, and the whole thing was surreal to him now. Just what did he want from him. The nearest warm body who wasn’t his own brother. That’s what Prussia wanted. And boy did he have no idea…just what he needed, and why not fix the old broken things; why not reuse them. Why not take an old friendship, and mend it to wear it longer; as something else. Take down the curtains, à la Scarlett O’Hara, and make a new dress from them, to impress the inmate. The skilled poker player. And no one was bluffing now. Prussia knew Austria would make a good husband, so why not. And Austria knew Prussia was desperate. So why not.

As soon as possible. ‘We’ll get married tonight then, maybe!’ Prussia had called, as he shook Germany, in an attempt to awake him. And Austria had backed away, an odd crooked smile, and a frantic beating heart, and words echoing in his ear. Advice heeded, and taken without any work on his own part. Except for that whole scene from a love story; most likely some dreckish Hollywood film Prussia had watched in the middle of a sleepless night, while blogging, paying half attention. Or maybe Prussia had read it in one of Germany’s romance novels. 'The filthy things,' Austria thought, but boy, did he too used to steal them from Germany’s bedside, just to have a way to pass the evenings. Finding them funny; to fill in his name for one of the main characters. And to fill in Germany’s name for the other.

 _'Romance is not as sweet as fiction, unfortunately,'_ he once advised Germany, on that infamous Buon San Valentino. And it all seemed so dishonest now. Yet...Austria cringed, as he and Prussia walked past strangers, upon the sidewalk; through the dusk, and beneath streetlights. ‘Maybe it’s different for humans,’ he thought. ‘And maybe it’s different for Germany and Italy.’ And maybe Austria was just worried; cautious. Protective.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t you think it’s strange,” he asked, “your brother wanted to get married years ago, but you’ve never wanted to marry anyone until now?”

"I never had a time limit until now," said Prussia, and his smile faded. "You think West got it figured out for us today?" he asked, huddling close to Austria and his grape juicy coat for warmth. Prussia's own coat -- the old tattered thing -- was still balled-up in the top of his bedroom closet. Autumn new, and the cool air only beginning to beg the need of added layers. Austria wore coats in summer, if he could stay indoors the whole time. So on a September night, walking the streets, a coat was a given. But Prussia’s old coat was still at least a mile away. And his sweatshirt folded in his arms. Gilbird in the pocket. And Prussia wanted to don the shirt, but best not to wake the bird. After all, his poor friend had suffered a rough night, too, hadn't he? Without Prussia as a country, Gilbird was just another bird now. Not the loved one of a nation. The pet to be held in the hands or on the head of The Teutonic Knights, or The Kingdom of Prussia, or East Germany, or even The Immortal Man who Lived in the House of Germany, because he served his time as half of the country; he carried a weight, and he paced a wall, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone realized, with the country unified, 'We only need one man to personify this country.' And it wasn’t his. It was never all his.

No writing his name on it with a pen, or with anything. He fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist. Peering down at his one free hand. “You want to go to my place, and wash up, and eat supper," he asked, "like regular guys?” And he grinned again, stepping close, unobservant of the few people who brushed past them. There on a street corner. In the last moments of a sunset they largely ignored. “Even if West doesn’t have everything ready…we could sit down and eat at the dinner table. I won’t even fight with you this time! I won’t throw things at you. I’ll even pour tea for you. And I won’t even spit in it.”

Austria was too busy making a list in his mind of all the things he could pawn. Things to sell to buy materials for the dress Prussia had asked him to buy. As soon as possible. ‘Maybe we’ll get married tonight! — Go buy a dress! — I want to see if you do make a prettier bride than me!! — Ah, and a corset, Austria! A corset!!’

At least Prussia got one thing he wanted. Two things, counting Austria. And a bonus, if a taste of the honeymoon was, in fact, what Prussia had hoped for. Even if he wasn’t the one who gave it. Even if he wasn’t the one in control for once. And he seemed to like it, anyway. ‘A mannequin sneezed,’ Austria laughed to himself. ‘The big silly…so ashamed.’

And Austria tugged at his silver cross, by pinching at the thick fabric of his coat. At his chest. Above his heart, and he could feel his lungs tighten. All out of breath. “If you’ll carry me to your brother’s house,” Austria said in a sharp dignified tone, “then maybe I’ll dine with you.”

"Ah, shut up," Prussia said. "Enough of that! I’m not carrying you anywhere, but up an aisle."

"I think you mean down the aisle," said Austria, as they grinned back and forth to one another. Soft glances, and a tight grasp as they walked across the street, as soon as the light allowed it. Cars halted, and the soon to be married men walked through the gate of frozen traffic.

"No," Prussia said huffing, as they reached the next block, "you’re going to walk yourself down the aisle. And if you do, I’ll carry you back up! Or on a honeymoon. Or piggyback. Or."

Prussia imagined Austria riding him horsey style. But with Prussia wearing a saddle on his back, and Austria in a cowboy hat and boots; bare-assed, but dressed in the white satin corset, and holding a black leather riding crop.

Prussia laughed. “Austria, you like riding horses, don’t you?” he smirked.

"Why??" asked Austria, as they trailed away from the busy streets, and shopping district, and began nearing the long road into trees. An unmarked road which would soon lead to an unmarked drive. A gate-less fence, but with an unseen security guard. And a home, well-lit, and warm, and waiting. Closing the distance between them, and their ‘for nation’s sake’ family.

Austria leaned and hit Prussia on the shoulder. “Just what on earth are you imagining over there?!” he asked.

"You started it," said Prussia.

And if a fallen empire and a ghost were watching from the rooftop of a nearby pawn shop, or a Snooty Bridal Store window, or the doorstep of a tavern now bustling with costumers and drunks, they'd see their turned backs; their bodies; their shapes — now only inkblots; black t-shirt and grape juicy coat, disappearing on the edge of a tree-lined drive. Into the shade and shadows of a small stretch of rural district; a residence occupied by the immortal brother of a newfound civilian.

"No, _you_ started it," Austria bickered, and he shot a smirk of his own. "I was just nice enough to finish it."


	13. Jumping the Broom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broomstick Marriage: An old phrase, originating from the United Kingdom; if a couple is said to have 'jumped the broom', it means they've entered into a marriage of dubious validity.
> 
> Polterabend: A custom in Germany; the night prior to a wedding ceremony, people break items of porcelain to bestow luck upon the couple to be married. 
> 
> Plate Smashing: A Greek custom of breaking plates at a wedding. (Surely I didn't write this chapter under the delusion that a Polterabend was akin to Plate Smashing. Surely not.) 
> 
> Mazel Tov: Yiddish for 'Good Luck'. At a Jewish wedding ceremony, people say Mazel Tov as congratulations, especially after the groom stomps a wine glass.
> 
> Brooms in Hetalia: We have HRE's push broom as a going-away present from Italy, and Prussia's guitar broom solo to Austria in Music Club. So it's all pretty cute, when you think about it.

In his spotless kitchen, crouching to the floor, Germany was conscious and alert. Showered, and dressed in an elegant suit, made in Italy. Picked out by Italy. Paid for by Germany. A dark gray suit and a pretty green tie.

Italy was also present, humming about, from room to room; dressed in a navy suit; ready to walk Austria down the aisle.

Usually, as tradition dictates, a father gives away his daughter, on her wedding day, but in light of such strange impending circumstances, Italy would give away his father figure. The man who raised him, no matter how strict. -- Indeed, despite any later warfare between them, Italy adored Austria: his piano-playing; his treats and baked-goods; and maybe Italy felt a kinship, due to their homogeneous haircurls.

Germany leaned towards the kitchen door, trying to spot his longtime boyfriend, whom he knew was around here somewhere. "Italy!" he shouted. "Can you bring some more bubble wrap?"

Germany was already ankle deep in a pile of packing supplies. All out of bubble wrap, perhaps, but upon the mopped floor stacked in neat lines were tissue paper, masking tape, and those awful styrofoam peanuts.

And earlier in the day, Italy had pretended to eat one.

'Don't do that!' Germany had gasped, with the upmost seriousness. 'You could die! You could choke. Do you know how long it takes for those things to rot away in landfills? -- We shouldn't even be using them, but...if you swallow one, it could sit in your stomach for the rest of your life!!'

And Germany had broke into a sweat, while Italy played a gag, like a magic trick. Showing his hand. The peanut up his sleeve, and 'See Germany?' he had asked, while slithering the peanut from the underneath of his suit jacket cuff, 'I was just hiding it from you...I didn't really swallow it!' and Italy had laughed, and Germany had sighed, and it's all right, to have a sense of humor, Germany. You should try it some time.

But Italy was not in sight; only in mind. And Germany kept staring at the kitchen doorway, thinking Italy would poke his head past the doorframe, and say Hi, and bound in, bearing another stack of bubble wrap, while smiling -- always smiling -- but no. Germany was on his own, for now, and left to his own devices.

To pack away all the plates in the kitchen. All the priceless decorations in the whole of the house. And, 'Just in case,' he had said, explaining to Italy, earlier in the day, 'Prussia decides to have a Polterabend one day late.'

But the loved ones of the engaged couple were supposed to break porcelain, for the sake of good luck, and a bright future, free of fighting; a strife-less married life, but...knowing his brother, Germany thought it best to go ahead and pack away a wide range of breakable contents in his spotless kitchen.

'Lest either one of them get any ideas,' he had sighed.

And Germany stood, and peered about the room. Three boxes worth of plates and porcelain and delicate trinkets were set upon the tile; three cardboard boxes laden heavy: each item wrapped in tissue paper, then above and below the stacks of items was bubble wrap, and all around the stacks were peanuts. Tons of white styrofoam bits. And sure, it might be nice to chew on them, thought Germany; 'Might help to relieve stress!' But he lifted one, and sniffed at it, and no thank you.

He tossed the peanut back into an unlabeled box. Yet to be labeled...and Germany grabbed the masking tape, and leaned over, folding flaps, and taped the boxes shut. Tearing the tape with his teeth. And what would a real dentist say? -- Paging Dr. Fritz N. Schnitzels...

A real professional. And Germany shook his head, and swore he had no time for Prussia's nonsense. 'Once Brother gets here,' he noted to himself, 'it's time to start packing more than just plates.'

The two brothers had shared a home for the past couple decades. And prior to Prussia living on the 'other side', for a long stretch of time, the two brothers had shared a home, during the war which...well, why ruin the evening? Why think about such things tonight.

Germany shook his head, as if that alone would clear it. But it worked sometimes for him. To shake his head, or bow it; to cover his eyes with his hand. To break into a sweat, as he so often did, worked wonders for the man. He couldn't just shrug or laugh things off, the way Prussia often did. He couldn't play the piano (well, he _could_ ; but Germany preferred playing the cello) to drown out the rest of the world or his thoughts with music, the way Austria did. And he sure as hell couldn't smile his way through life, like Italy. No. He shook his head, and he covered his eyes with his palm, and he broke into a sweat, because physical things were the answer. Physical health, and physical well-being. He took a deep breath, and stared at the ceiling a moment -- a long moment -- and hoped the night would go well.

As if praying to no one but the inner most part of himself, 'Please let it go well. Please let Brother be all right now. Please let this be the best possible way for him to carry on through life.'

And Germany lowered his gaze back to the work at hand. And lying at the tip of his shiny dress shoe was a felt marker Germany was quite sure he hadn't brought into the kitchen himself. "What's this?" Germany asked, and he grabbed the pen, and held it to his face and smiled.

"Thanks," he said, and he may have blushed a bit. Knowing...Rome was always watching from somewhere. And maybe, when Germany spoke in his head, and in his heart, he wasn't praying to God, per se, but knew...somewhere up there, a certain man in a toga was listening. If only he knew how much Rome enjoyed _watching_ him, too.

But Germany knew. He wasn't sure if it was worth a laugh, or worth wincing over, but...it was worth something, anyway. And he told himself, despite Rome's late night visits to Germany's bedroom: it was all for the sake of Italy, at the end of the day.

Rome may have found Germany interesting, or attractive; who really knows what the Old Italian is thinking; the way he laughs, and holds you close, on the edge of a bed, at Midnight, but...he did love his grandsons will all his still-somehow-beating heart. And he loved Germany for keeping Italy close and safe, and within sight always.

A sort of father-in-law in Heaven, and hallowed be thy name.

Dropping felt markers from the sky when people needed them most!

And Germany uncapped the pen which had 'magically' appeared at his feet, and he used his teeth to uncap it, and 'Damn it!' surely Prussia -- I mean, Dr. Fritz -- would say, if only he were present, and not elsewhere, with an Austrian riding him piggyback. All out of breath. And they were making their way up Germany's long driveway. Making good time, thought Prussia. And 'We'll be there soon!' he probably huffed, with Austria on his back. And then beneath his breath, he probably cussed at the weight on his shoulders. Surely Austria wasn't this heavy before?! Not that Austria had put on any extra weight, as he often feared, and wondered, while gazing at himself in long mirrors, whilst standing naked, before going to bed, to cry a bit, and maybe have a swig of some liqueur-spiked coffee, but...maybe Prussia could just feel the weight of the world (or at least one country of the world) on his shoulders a bit more pronounced now, since a mortal is more capable of sensing a weight, and feeling pain. And he didn't stumble a bit, while carrying his fiancé to the door. Surely not. Not big studly Prussia! And at least Hungary was good for something...the way she stayed away, thought Prussia, as he didn't spot her car in the driveway.

Meanwhile...

Inside the house; in the spotless kitchen, Germany touched the felt tip of the uncapped pen to the cardboard, and wrote upon the three boxes: _'DO NOT BREAK.'_

And he wanted to write upon his forehead: 'Do not bend. Do not object. Hold it all in. This is for the best. This is the answer. This is the beginning...not an end. This is what he wants. And it'll be all right for once. Surely. Please Rome. Let this be it. A good thing for once. A nice change.'

Assuming it would all fit on his forehead, and no; even if it would, the sweat would wash it away, to read nothing but 'best' or 'good' or 'nice'. Some pleasant epitaph. Some pleasant salutation to greet the engaged to be married men, like a welcome mat handwritten on Germany's forehead.

And as long as the men in his mind stayed quiet tonight; as long as the men on his shoulders didn't feel the need to appear; as long as Prussia stayed his ass out of Germany's spotless kitchen, and away from these boxes, God damn it, then...Germany would be pleased. Relieved. And maybe this whole 'civilian marrying a country' thing, wouldn't be so bad.

Germany dropped the felt marker to the kitchen counter, and grabbed the last remaining breakable item from a wide-open cabinet. "A wine glass," he said. "Just in case Austria wants to say Mazel Tov," and he grinned, thinking of the morning's proposal. To Prussia asking whether or not Austria was Jewish. And it's funny how everyone assumed, when Germany went into his little trances, he couldn't hear anything. Ah, but...maybe he could? And so he grinned. "Just in case," he repeated, and he peered at himself in the glass. Just making sure he looked nice for his own date. His own country whom he wanted to wed. But this wasn't his night, now was it? 'Got to make it perfect for them,' he thought. 'As perfect as I can.' And maybe, just maybe, it would give Italy a few good ideas.

One in particular: Marriage being a fine way to rest one's head. At the end of a long day, and 'no end in sight' life, and it was all never-ending, and wouldn't it be nice to spend the rest of their days in a cozy comfortable state of marital bliss? With Prussia leaving home now; with Prussia moving away, Germany assumed, to live somewhere with Austria, the house would be empty again. And with Italy sleeping over most nights anyway...it would be nice if Italy would finally say yes. If Grandpa Rome could look down from Heaven, or come and visit, and sit on the edge of the bed, with a happily married couple sleeping upon it. And not just Germany alone, some nights.

But Germany shushed the hope in his mind, because he felt a flashback coming on, and if there was one trance in which Germany ventured, where no man or country or sound could reach him, it was that one odd and indescribable trance where he saw a little girl with flowers all around. Nothing as formal and cold as packing supplies...but flowers at her feet. A little girl in a dress, and she looked so sweet, Germany thought. The most precious sight he'd ever laid eyes on, though he didn't know when or where...he couldn't describe...how it felt almost like a moment of déjà vu, or some flashback to a scene in a love story, sans the dreckish Hollywood movie; but it was real life. It was something he had seen before, perhaps in a previous life, if not his own. But it felt like his real life, and Austria was wrong: reality _was_ as sweet as fiction, surely, he believed. For the little girl in his mind was the most uplifting sight he had ever seen. And sometimes in his vivid daydream-esque trances, he also saw a little boy at the little girl's side, and just why one handed the other a push broom or a pair of panties was beyond him.

Germany laughed quiet to himself, and shook his head, lest he pass into another trance. 'No time for that now,' he thought, and set the wine glass back on the shelf.

"I'm quite sure he's Catholic," he said, and shut the door. "And if not...well...Mazel Tov anyway, right?" His gaze softened, as he heard footsteps behind him, and Italy's unmistakable and gentle hum near his ears. "Mazel Tov," he repeated, and hands were about his waistline. A chin resting on his shoulder. Arms wrapped around him, and the Italian hugging tight, and he felt a kiss upon his cheek.

"It's about time you got here!" Germany shouted, and Italy whimpered, and Prussia and Austria aren't the only two men in this world who have a hard time saying and showing just what they really feel and mean.

***

At the dawn of nightfall, Germany's front door swung open, and Austria and Prussia came simpering into the foyer.

Hearing the sound of company, Italy darted from the kitchen into the entranceway of the house.

"Austria!" he shouted, pogoing around. "Ciao! Ciao! Hug me!!"

And he scampered to Austria's side, and threw his arms about the country's waist. "I missed you, Mr. Austria," Italy cooed.

Prussia sulked, as he tossed the small frilly bag, trimmed with lace, and with a pink ribbon serving as its handle, atop a nearby table.

"What's that?" Germany asked, as he approached the group, pointing towards the bag. Forcing out the words, "I guess you managed to find a dress, after all," he concluded, and he rubbed his brow, not waiting for an answer, "We were quite worried about you two."

"Yeah!" said Italy, as he pulled away from the greeting hug. "We've been waiting all afternoon."

Prussia held out his arms, and his bottom lip protruded even further. "I'm not talking until Cute Italy gives _me_ a hug."

Italy glanced at Germany, and emitted a faint laugh.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt," said Germany, nodding Italy towards Prussia.

"Of course it won't hurt!" beamed Prussia. His spirits raised. Italy walked to Prussia's arms, and Prussia hugged the slight country, lifting him into the air; Italy's feet dangling at first, then kicking, twelve inches from the ground.

Germany sighed. "Put him down now, Brother."

But Prussia kept squeezing, and hugging, and twisting Italy back and forth slow, as if comforting a child; greeting someone at an airport, after they arrive, and you haven't seen them in years. _How was your flight? I missed you, I missed you..._

"It's good to see you," said Prussia, finally setting Italy's feet to touch the floor. "I've been stuck in a dressing room, with Un-Cute Austria, all day."

Italy failed to force back a smile, yet he turned to Austria, to see if the latter had heard Prussia's comment, and to gauge his reaction. Italy may suffer from ditzy spells, and was prone to cause confusion, from time to time, but he was no idiot. Especially in matters of 'love' and couples.

Austria glared at Prussia. "Yes, well..." he said, and turned away; fumbled with his gloves, while removing them; peeling them from long fingers, and stuffing the black leather into his coat pocket. He studied the floor, and his shoes, and looked everywhere except at Prussia again, or at Italy's cute, younger-looking, and more impish face. That smile! Those ever-constant bubbly sounds of optimism and cheeriness; his glowing complexion; sunny demeanor. Italy was all the joy and summer-scented romantic confections Austria was not.

Austria's glare finally settled on Germany. The other brother; another man whose fondness of Italy surpassed any potential fondness of Austria. Germany was the most attractive man in the room, thought Austria (and boy, had he long thought it!), but you didn't see him fawning, and pawing all over Germany. What an upset it would cause, should Austria suddenly shout, 'Germany, Germany! Hug me! Kiss me!! I missed you!!!'

Of course not. How silly, huffed Austria. To make a fool of one's self. Begging for hugs. Sulking until you get your way. Prussia had a lot of growing up to do, Austria believed, and on the eve of their wedding: what better time to do it?

Austria never refused Italy's hugs, however, no matter how childish he felt them to be; but ah, it was nice to be loved by Italy. It was nice to be loved by anyone.

To be jealous of the physical contact Prussia and Italy shared, or to be sad Germany didn't greet Austria, his former housemate and future brother-in-law, the same way Italy treated his once father figure, was of no great matter. He had Prussia on bended knee in a bedroom, didn't he? Begging for marriage. And on the floor of the Snooty Bridal Store fitting room, he had him panting, and mumbling swears beneath his breath.

There were worse ways to be treated, Austria supposed, than as a piece of meat the wolf can hardly wait to devour. But Prussia did wait. If only in one way. But it was the most important way.

So what if Prussia's eyes widened and brightened at the mere sight of Italy? So what if he found Italy more physically appealing?? 'Cute', chided Austria in his mind; all the while, his eyes were still affixed to Germany and his sweating brow. 'I barely touched Prussia,' thought Austria, 'and made him come after a two minute handjob to which I gave less vigor than to my morning practice of Chopin, and forced him to ruin the overpriced plain wedding gown we used as a hand towel. What now, _Cute_ Italian??'

Austria smirked. 'Your move,' his eyes seemed to plead, while staring at Germany. 'Speak, damn it! You big dummy...'

Germany wiped his brow with the back of his palm, and peered at the England Angel on one shoulder, and the Devil America on the other. 'What on earth do I say?!' thought Germany.

Before the awkward silence could be broken -- as always, not only Austria, but Italy, too, expected Germany to save the day! Unbeknownst to the haircurl twins, however, no one more so than Germany, expected Germany to save the day -- and before the unseen-to-the-rest-of-the-room Devil and Angel could answer Germany's inaudible plea for guidance, Prussia walked over to Austria, and slid his arm around him.

"Fussy Britches and I are ready to get hitched now!" Prussia said, cocking his head, to smile at his fiancé. A warm grin, which melted away Austria's doubt-riddled and snarky internal monologue.

"Good," said Germany, "because I have everything ready. You two are getting married tonight."

Austria gasped. "But...we _didn't_ buy a dress!" he said. "We don't even have rings, or..." And he might as well have been slapped. The shocked look in his eyes. Clawing for any excuse. He knew the marriage would come sooner than he liked, but tonight?!

Prussia laughed. "I knew you could do it, West!!" and his face shone bright, as he pulled Austria closer against him, rubbing at the thick fabric of the grape juicy coat, finally letting his grasp settle and squeeze at Austria's hip.

Despite Prussia's excitement, Germany cast a worried gaze to Austria, and for a fleeting moment, feared Austria, and not Prussia, was the true victim of circumstance here.

"As for the rings," Germany said, forcing a smile, "I'm sure we can figure out something."

And he motioned Italy towards a doorway. "Go get the suits," Germany said.

"Aye, aye, Captain!" said Italy, and he saluted him, for old time's sake; bounding to the dining room, where two suits in garment bags were slung over the backs of wooden chairs.

Germany returned the salute, and again shot his attention to the man he used to refer to as his nagging housewife. "Austria, as for the dress," he began, clearing his throat, to ease the words too hard for him to speak -- too hard to speak without blushing, or without imagining Austria in a dress; feeling a bit humiliated for him (if Prussia thought of nakedness akin to lonesomeness and shame, then surely Germany thought a man, who normally wears pants, wearing a dress instead, was something embarrassing; a punishment; for after all, on that one eventful April Fool's Day, Germany was subjected to wear a maid's dress, as part of a plot of comedic blackmail!) -- and he pulled at the knot of his tie, "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to find one, what with your refined taste. So while Italy was purchasing wedding suits for Prussia and I, he purchased one for you, as well."

"See?" Prussia said to Austria, "Everything is working out perfectly!"

And Germany sighed, relieved by the sight of his brother's elation, but also, for his own personal reasons, he was comforted, thinking, 'Ah, now maybe Brother will keep his hands off Italy, and now maybe Austria will expect Prussia to save the day, and not put all of his reluctance to do things, and his reliance, on me,' and the Devil and the Angel on his shoulders agreed, but poked at Germany's cheeks.

Poor Germany. Poor, put-upon Germany. He had hired a man to officiate the wedding. He had prepared all the paperwork himself, while Italy decorated the living room, and cooked the wedding supper, and set the table with items not to be packed away, including a trio of Italian cigars. France sent wine. Otherwise, the remaining multitude of countries had no idea of the approaching nuptials. And Germany wanted to keep it that way, lest someone protest. Only Hungary knew, and should she want to protest, she could have done so, earlier in the afternoon, as she was present too. Helping Italy, by bringing an armload of flowers, with tears in her precious eyes. A beautiful girl, with a loving heart, but it beat for Austria so long, she couldn't hear it anymore, and wondered if perhaps she imagined loving him, for the comfort of stability, and the familiarity which was in it. For the unchanging way they treated each other, more as friends, than wild lovers. She pretended to hear it beat for him, because perhaps, she didn't know what to do with herself -- her free time, and her lonely nights -- when it didn't.

But the room was readied, and in it, waited the officiant. Along with the paperwork: the license, and the fake birth certificates.

"I wasn't sure how to fill it all out," Germany told Prussia, as soon as he and Austria had returned from venturing upstairs, to separate bedrooms, to don their new suits: Austria's white, and Prussia's powder blue.

And Germany led the couple and Italy into the living room. Prussia holding Austria by the hand, as Austria struggled to trail behind, with the Cute Italian at his side. Cute Italy, who slicked Austria's Mariazell with his fingers; who pulled at the hem of Austria's new jacket.

"You want to look nice for your wedding, don't you, Mr. Austria?" asked Italy.

Germany mumbled beneath his breath, "Yeah, even if it's not his first one." And he turned, lifting a piece of paper from a side table. "Here," he said, handing the document to Prussia, along with a pen. "What do you want your name to be?"

Germany then retrieved a similar document, and the marriage license, and thrust them into Austria's hands. "You, too," he said. "You can't exactly be married as 'The Nation of Austria', you know."

Prussia signaled for Italy to turn around, and he placed the document on Italy's back, to serve as a writing desk. "I know!" Prussia said, while scribbling on his piece of paper. "I'll be Fritzy von Fritz N. Schnitzels, world renowned dentist to spoiled brat countries!! And you..." he said, studying Austria's wearied appearance. "You can be," he began to suggest, while raising his hands in the air, as if performing some flamboyant scene on the Broadway stage; waving them as he spoke: "You can be - The Piano Man!"

Germany fumed at his brother's dramatics, and shouted, "I don't think that's a satisfactory name for a human being!" And he snatched the pen from Prussia's hand, and passed it to Austria. "Just pick something," he directed.

Austria stood thinking a moment, before completing the certificate, and signing the license. "Here," he said, passing both documents back to Germany.

"What'd ya' pick, Mr. Austria?" asked Italy.

Austria shook his head, and looked to Germany for approval. Germany, who read over the documents of both men, and raised his chin, to return Austria's glance.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the surname," said Germany. "But the first name is a nice honor. Thank you."

Austria nodded. Prussia and Italy bounced around, singing silly songs; Italy leading, 'Here comes the bride, all dressed in white...' and Prussia correcting and improvising, "You mean - 'Here comes the bride - big, mean and snide!' - Here comes the groom - quick! grab my broom," and Prussia did an air guitar solo, while Germany wandered to the kitchen, rolling his eyes.

Stepping past the labeled boxes, re-reading their labels, to remind himself...Germany reached the fridge, and opened the door, digging about to retrieve a vase hidden behind groceries and leftovers. And from the vase, Germany withdrew a bridal bouquet; a bundle of blue flowers tied together with a thick red and white bow.

Rejoining the group (or what was left of it; Prussia and Italy were laughing near the officiant, who looked on in bewilderment, while Austria lingered in the doorway), Germany handed the flowers to his former housemate. 

"Cornflowers?" Austria asked, peering down at the bouquet in his hand; fingering at the bow, guessing the odd choice in colors (odd for a wedding ceremony) was supposed to represent his flag.

Germany huddled close -- but not too close; only near enough to whisper a name:  "Hungary and I figured you'd like Edelweiss," he said, "but you know..."

Austria smiled, but it was broken; as if disappointed; as if guilt-stricken, knowing...Hungary brought the flowers; a bouquet of Prussia's favorites, and then left. 

"No, this is fine," he said. "I understand." And he glanced away from the flowers in his hand, long enough to spy his fiancé, dancing about with Italy. And he shot his gaze back to Germany.

"He seems to be having fun tonight, anyway," Austria said.

Germany studied his brother and Italy's playful antics for a moment, and seemed to want to smile, but he too suppressed whatever it was he really wanted to say, and reached down to fiddle with the red and white bow.

Feeling he appeared ungrateful -- fearing he was taking something he shouldn't; something he wasn't entitled to -- Austria forced a 'real' smile. "They're nice, Germany," he said. "Thank you." And pulling the flowers towards himself, he sniffed. "At least they're not Heliotropes," he said in a hushed tone. "We know how unlucky those can be."

But the mere allusion to that infamous Buon San Valentino sent Germany traipsing away, to grab Prussia by the collar of his powder blue suit, and, "Settle down!" Germany screamed. "It's your wedding day!"

"But it's nighttime," Prussia whined. "And Cute Italy is here! And..."

Germany dragged his brother across the floor, as Prussia dug his heels into nothing, for there was no carpet. Wood floors, so all Prussia could do was slide.

And Italy rushed to join Austria in the doorway.

"I think it's starting!" Italy said. Gleaming eyes, wide-open, and what a rare occasion. To see Mr. Austria get married to a man, not for the sake of his country; marrying a man Italy never even imagined Austria liked, let alone wanted to wed. But he laughed, and interlocked his arm with Austria's, careful not to knock the flowers from his hand. "Pretty," Italy smiled, and Austria suddenly agreed...

His cheeks went red, and he smiled in return. "I think so too," Austria said, and it felt good not to lie. To hold the flowers symbolic not of his own country, but of Germany's, and therefore Prussia's, or...'Maybe not anymore,' thought Austria. Regular men can't have symbolic flowers. Regular men can't have colors of a flag. Regular men can't even get married without their brother dragging them away from another cute man?! And Austria's mind wandered from one positive to several negatives, to end up in a gray area of mixed thoughts and mixed emotions, until he demanded himself he go numb, and let Italy lead him along, and put him in place, and soon, he was sure, he'd remember just why on earth he was standing there to begin with.

So with the bouquet in his hands, the Groomgroom stood with Italy at the start of the makeshift aisle, created by pushing two striped sofas a bit further apart from where they usually set. And Germany and Prussia positioned themselves at the head of the room, to stand on one side of the Officiating Man: a Swede with a fear-stricken expression.

"Where on earth did you find this guy?" Prussia said, as if the man couldn't hear him. "Looks like you dug him out of a grave!"

Germany shook his hand, and shushed and scolded his brother, by way of a cold stare.

Music was provided by no one, as The Piano Man himself, the newfound and pretend Mr. Schubert, made his way down the aisle, arm-in-arm with the 'father of the bride'; the former son of the country.

As they reached the 'altar' -- an antique globe, placed behind the officiant -- Austria, in his white suit, was kissed on the cheek by Italy, before Italy retreated to the sidelines. And Germany stood, as Prussia's Best Man, and Hungary would have liked to stood as the 'Bride's' Maid or Matron of Honor, or, better yet, as the Groomgroom's Best Woman...?! But Austria stood alone, and wished Hungary hadn't drove back to her own country, leaving him unattended to marry Prussia, a.k.a. the newly-dubbed Fritz.

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?" asked the officiant.

Prussia held Austria's hands in his, and said, "I do."

"Will you love him, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer..."

"I promise I will!" Prussia interrupted. And he whistled to the well-rested Gilbird, who had napped all day in Prussia's pocket. "Come on," Prussia said, as the little bird hopped forward from his hiding place behind the sofa, wearing a tiny blue bow-tie, and he pattered down the aisle, with Prussia's black and white bracelet in his mouth.

Prussia turned to his brother, and whispered, "I thought about asking you for that tomato-shaped ring you once bought for Italy, but...I figure you keep that thing around for reasons," he winked.

And as Gilbird pecked the toes of Prussia's shiny white shoes, "All right now!" Prussia said, and he reached down, plucking the bracelet from Gilbird's beak, handing the cheap piece of 'jewelry' to Austria. "Read it out loud," he smiled.

Austria peered down at the bracelet atop his palm. "Kiss Me, I'm Prussian," he said, almost asking, as Prussia lifted the bracelet, and slid it onto Austria's wrist.

"No, you're Austrian!" Prussia teased. "But I'll kiss you anyway."

And with opened eyes, Prussia leaned forward, and kissed his new husband on the lips.

Italy gushed with a sentimental 'Awww', and Germany turned his face to the wall.

"Good grief," he said.

And that was it. The vows answered, and the union forged.

Married. As long as they both shall live...

Or in bleaker terms:

'Til Prussia's death do they part.


	14. Three on a Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three on a Match: A superstition which originates amongst soldiers...
> 
> For the sake of rationing matches during wartime, several soldiers would share one match, to light their cigarettes. Passing it around, 'til the match burnt away. But letting the fire burn a long time had dire consequences. Or so the story goes:
> 
> As the first soldier lights his cigarette, the enemy has a chance to spot the flame. As the second soldier lights his cigarette, the enemy takes aim. As the third soldier lights his cigarette, the enemy fires.
> 
> So it's bad luck to use a single match three times. Tragedy befalls the third in line.
> 
> (I'm starting to sound like a morbid nursery rhyme!)
> 
> Rain on a Wedding Day: In a lot of cultures, people consider it a good sign to receive rain on a wedding day. But growing up, I always heard it was a bad omen. 'If it storms on your wedding day, you're in for a stormy marriage.' Or, 'Rain on the wedding day, equals tears on the wedding night.'

After the ceremony, Italy uncorked a bottle of wine, and in lieu of confetti, threw rice in the air, or maybe it was uncooked pasta. Macaroni. Little bits landed, and settled in Germany's blond hair. Gilbird was more than happy to peck it out for him; digging his tiny beak into Germany's slicked-back tresses, until pasta hit the wood floor with pitter-patters. Hard rain on a thin roof.

"You two are married now!" shouted Italy. "I can't believe it! - We have to celebrate!!"

He jumped up and down, and placed his thumb over the opening of the wine bottle; recorked with flesh. He shook the bottle, and then pointed it at Germany; moving his thumb, Italy sprayed him in the face. Was it blood dripping down? Germany saw red, and tasted grapes, and the whole room was fragrant with ripened fruit, sunshine, and vineyards. A green row of trees casting shade against the sunset, and blue skies suited best for daydreams.

"Your clothes!" said Austria.

"Thanks a lot," mumbled Germany, licking his lips. Sure it tasted good, but what a waste of a nice suit.

"To say nothing of wasting wine!" scolded Austria. "Surely I raised you better than this?!"

He stomped his foot, and fumed at Italy, who merely laughed, almost inaudible; that cute faint laugh when he knows he's at fault, and surely deserves Mr. Austria's harsh criticism. He usually did (or so he thought), and grew up to take it to heart. Best laugh it off...lest it sink into his heart, and ferment there, causing more doubt to grow, in the way of: 'I'm a fuck-up, and weak, and dumb, and no one is ever going to love me more than my best friend, Germany. - I better not mess this up...'

As if it were as simple as all that.

"I bought the suit, Mr. Austria," said Italy, "so I guess it's okay if I ruined it."

Italy glanced at Germany, with wide eyes; that rare occasion; a puppy pleading to be forgiven after shredding your best pair of shoes. Tearing your morning paper. Soaking your business documents for the next big meeting. Italy even threw in a whimper for good measure. Had he a tail to wag, he would have stuck it between his legs, and sulked into a corner, looking over his shoulder, in sporadic moments, to widen his eyes, and stick out his bottom lip further, and let tears well and fall, and his haircurl droop and crinkle at the tip.

No. Germany loved to see the tip of Italy's haircurl form into a heart-shape.

"He's right," lied Germany. "Italy not only picked out this suit, he paid for it himself." Germany raised his chin, and smiled. It felt good to deceive ol' Austria. Why not! His newfound brother-in-law, and just who did he think he was, marring Germany's older brother, in a rushed fit of desperation, due to Prussia's compulsiveness. His sudden need to live a full life. Anything to enter into another marriage, right Austria? Even if the ceremony had came sooner than he liked -- and yes, Germany did feel sorry for Austria in that respect; fearing, if only for a fleeting moment, Prussia had coaxed Austria into something he wasn't quite prepared for -- but in Prussia's defense, Austria did agree to the proposal, and went through with the wedding, and ol' Austria loved those damn things, didn't he? - He used to say, the best way to solve problems was by marrying off a few people; marriage solved everything! But maybe in this case, it would create more problems, and not be the nice-enough change Germany had resigned himself to hope for, for Prussia's sake.

And maybe Austria was simply a bad choice for Prussia's first spouse, Germany pondered. Maybe Austria would treat Prussia like garbage, and make him feel like dirt. Or maybe Austria would dote on Prussia, but in the way an old maid dotes on a child. 'Make tea for me, and sit and listen while I play the piano. Read aloud to me: I'm lonely. Fetch chocolates for me. Fluff my pillows: it's time for my afternoon nap.'

Yes, thought Germany, it would be a loveless and sexless marriage; just like Austria's old political unions. No different. Just two empires -- no; cross that; two former empires; a country and a civilian -- sharing a home, and a fake surname, and never taking each other for anything more than 'granted'. Never realizing what true love means. Surely! They were ex-enemies, and hardly friends, and now this?!

Germany pulled at the wet fabric of his suit, and wished the shower of alcohol would have washed the men in his mind right out of his ears, lest they keep making new files Germany couldn't keep up with!

And as the Best Man stood stiff, and lost in thought, Gilbird drank wine from Germany's red-tinged tresses.

The bird stretched out his wings, and flew dizzy to Prussia's head.

"Did you get a drink, too?" Prussia asked his friend. "Or did you get a bath??"

He plucked Gilbird from his silver hair, and held him close to his face, nuzzling him. "You did a great job as my awesome little ring bearer!" Prussia said.

Even if Gilbird had no ring to bear; only a cheap bracelet Prussia had ordered off the internet, special-made.

And now Austria wore it on his wrist, peering down at it, on occasion, to reread the words, and thus, relive their wedding kiss. How strange it was to be kissed by Prussia in front of Germany and Italy; the two witnesses required for the ceremony. And it was strange, Austria thought, to have no other guests, and to have an officiant, who looked to be lost in a state of shock the whole time.

The officiant; the Swede, who gathered up his things, and nodded good bye to Germany, and waved to the couple, as he donned his coat, and exited the home. "Such strange people...," the officiant said, as he climbed into his car. "I knew I should have taken after my father, and become a waiter in an Italian restaurant."

***

Knowing he was on Mr. Austria's bad side, Italy gave up the poor puppy routine with Germany, and cast his gaze to the father figure whom he loved: not more so than he loved Germany, nor in the same way, but...Germany was more forgiving than Austria. The latter was tricky. Italy had spent many nights, as a child, crying over the way Austria treated him, and as an adult, Italy couldn't stand to suffer anything close to those childhood years of Austria showing his temper. Mild scoldings followed by silent treatments were about the worst penalty Austria ever dished out to him nowadays, but still. Italy hated to be ignored. He couldn't stand the way Austria stared at him, with that stiff upper lip, and narrowed eyes. 'Too mean and scary.' Not too far off from Germany's demeanor, when mad or frustrated with Italy, but...Germany could be won over with soft and sweet gestures. Tight hugs, and careful hands, and kisses on cheeks, and cutesy sounds in his ear. Humming 'til Germany blushed, and Italy would rub his nose to Germany's brow, and 'You like me a little bit, don't you, Germany? I'm sorry I missed the meeting...please still be my friend.'

And it was odd, perhaps, the way Italy and Germany both still referred to one another as 'friends'. Aloud, anyway. In private, they were boyfriends, and lovers, and all those passionate things. But in public -- even if the company they kept was 'family' -- Germany and Italy were still 'just friends'. Still calm, and careful, and pristine. As if the two of them were still virgins, fumbling with the lid of tomato boxes, or giving red roses without knowing, just what Germans think of such things.

But Austria was tougher. - But Austria had one weak point! One Achilles heel to his heart; one entrance point Italy could always count on, and perhaps it was something the two had in common. 'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.' And boy, did Mr. Austria love sweets!

Italy perked up. "Mr. Austria," he said, "if you want, you can help me take the food out of the oven, and I'll help you decorate the wedding cake I made!"

Austria set his cornflower bouquet aside, atop one of the striped sofas: careful, as if lying a child down to sleep for the night, after you've spent hours rocking them, and singing to them, and God forbid you wake them up now, after all your hard work, and you're tired yourself. And surely, in their years spent as father and son, Austria had sang to Italy. He had played piano, to calm and soothe him. To let him know, should he be unable to express it in words, he did love Italy in return.

But some men are tricky. And there was no piano in Germany's living room; not anymore. Housed elsewhere, for who would play it daily? No one; not since the last world war.

Austria whined, "But why didn't _Germany_ bake the cake??" and he huffed, half-sulking and half-scolding again. As if it was Italy's fault Germany was too busy gathering up porcelain and other breakables to stop and bake the cake.

Italy shrugged. Because it was easier than explaining the trouble he and Germany had went through that afternoon. And why make Mr. Austria feel guilty? But a better excuse than indifference or confusion dawned on him, and Italy stuck a finger in the air, as if he suddenly remembered the 'real' reason. "Oh, I wanted to make it," said Italy. "Germany did too, but ah!" he gushed, "Germany was super sweet, and let me bake it all by myself." And he jabbed his hands to his hips, and peered up, as if so proud of himself. "Plus," he added, reverting to singsong, "I made a lasagna!"

"Very well," Austria said, and glanced over to Prussia, who had his back turned to the world, and a bird in his hands.

'Well as long as he's happy, I guess,' Austria thought, and he too shrugged, because...it was easier than asking his groom -- his new husband -- if any thing was wrong; if every thing's okay. If he's happy they went through with it; if he's glad the whole damn thing is over now. And...

Austria forced a smile, and joined Italy, to venture to Germany's spotless kitchen. To step past boxes, and Austria didn't know WHAT to make of the labels! But the two donned oven mitts, and retrieved a hefty pan of lasagna from the oven.

"It smells wonderful," Austria managed to compliment, and Italy beamed.

If there was one flawless thing about Mr. Austria, Italy thought, other than his music, 'At least he loves my cooking...even if he doesn't love me.'

***

'Prussia loves that bird more than he loves Austria!' thought Germany, as he watched his brother, who stood facing the curtains of the window, giggling and gossiping with Gilbird in his hands.

'Assuming he loves Austria at all,' Germany continued to muse. And he abandoned the party (or what was left of it), to go upstairs and change clothes. Shed the suit he himself purchased (not physically, but monetarily), and no one knew all the lies he collaborated with Italy.

No one knew the lies Germany told himself.

So what if he loved Italy in a different way than Italy loved him? (Or so he feared.) It hurt nothing, and no one, to go along with it. Germany was thrilled to be loved at all; in any way possible; in any amount. When he proposed to Italy, decades ago, in the wake of that infamous Buon San Valentino, sure Italy said no, but ah, they had remained friends, and later lovers, while Prussia was gone, and once Austria had moved out. Those days when Germany's house was quiet, and often dark. When he left the lights off; when he kept the curtains pulled shut, but the doors unlocked. The tight-knit friends, since WWI, were found by no one; no fellow housemates; no brothers. Romano suspected the 'worst', but stayed away; what's out of sight is out of mind, and for Italy, almost every thing is out of sight and mind, due to the rarity of opening his eyes wide enough to spy the bad things in life. Gotta keep his mind clear; his conscience clean. Yet Romano barged through life with both eyes wide and bloodshot. Crying all the time. Profanity dripped from his tongue like truth from the mouth of the Pope. An angel in devil's clothing.

Italy spent summers with Germany: in tents, in parks, in Venice. They went to carnevale together, and attended Oktoberfest, and spent Christmases at each other's places, and usually showed up to big events, perhaps not arm-in-arm, nor hand-in-hand, but in the spirit of two friends who were suspected to be more, but no one could prove a thing.

And Germany liked it that way.

Oh the lies they told; to cover their tracks. To hide their sex life. -- Germany wasn't ashamed of the relationship itself, or the nature of it, but...he had a reputation to uphold. The gentle giant with the EU on his back, and a squeaky clean record post WWII, and he wanted to keep his image that way, even in reference to his private affairs, and let no one think anything of him, except 'Good Guy'; 'Reformed Guy'; still a virgin, with no time for romance. An angel in an Italian suit.

And he was a good guy; he loved Italy with all his heart and soul, and so what if Prussia and Austria were married now? Germany wasn't jealous.

Too bad he didn't have Italy present in the bedroom, as he changed clothes, to back him up on that one. Oh the lies he told...

Downstairs, in the formal dining room, sat the newlyweds, side-by-side, as Italy graced his way about the table, serving up an array of home-cooked food. He placed a hand near his mouth, and hollered, "Hurry up, Germany! Before it gets cold!"

Austria and Prussia dug in without him. They had skipped lunch, thanks to their afternoon spent in the Snooty Bridal Store fitting room. Worked up an appetite by way of a dental examination; Prussia's 'whitewashing', thanks to Austria's 'handshaking'. The less strenuous of such jobs, but ah, on the verge of a honeymoon, why spoil the suspense? Why fill up on appetizers, when there's dinner waiting at home. When the full meal is here, and the honeymoon suite was booked, and under which name the room was registered, God only knows...

Hopefully not Fritzy von Fritz N. Schnitzels. My, what a mouthful.

***

After the wedding supper was devoured by the four men, Italy stood to clear the table; to gather plates, and leave only half-filled wine glasses, and a single white candle to serve as the table's centerpiece. Laid beside it was a small book of matches. 'More romantic,' Italy had thought, 'to light the candle with a match.'

And Germany thought cigars were in order. Italy had brought a few along, so why not? Even if Germany wasn't thrilled with what had transpired; even if he felt torn, as to what he should feel! Happy for his brother's happiness? Worried about Austria being tugged along for the ride. Or maybe it _was_ Austria's fault: to give Prussia a 'false' sense of hope; an illusion of comfort and protection. To be held last night, 'like a hero in a love story'. As his big brother had so sentimentally worded it. But Prussia was brave enough to request it, so at least there was that admirable breadth of character. That one trait Germany never knew his big brother possessed. To be a secret romantic?! To _want_ someone to hold him.

To make him feel safe.

The odd yet human things people request while lying on a supposed deathbed; to put aside their lifelong shame, and pride, and ask to have an arm around them, so they don't have to be alone.

Ah well, Germany decided. If Austria could make Prussia feel safe, or even feel wanted -- if not loved -- at least there was that.

And Germany rose from his seat, careful not to bump into Italy, who was still rushing back and forth, from the table to the kitchen, singing a little song as he worked -- a song about Germany, and sausages and cheeses -- and Germany crossed the room, to retrieve the three cigars and an ashtray from a nearby baker's rack.

"I have a treat for you two," he said, as he returned to his seat, placing the ashtray in front of him. "Here," he added, passing a cigar to each of the other men. "You still smoke sometimes, don't you, Austria?" he asked. "I know Brother likes cigarettes when he's nervous."

"I never get nervous!" Prussia laughed. And despite speaking to his brother, he turned to Austria, "Don't go telling lies about me to my new husband," he winked.

Germany screamed, "As if Austria doesn't know everything about you, already!!" And he grabbed the book of matches from the table, and unclosed the flap, and tore a match from its housing, and scratched it across the strip. -- Swish! -- And a flame was born. Lighting his own cigar first, then, "Here!" he repeated, as he upheld the secondhand match to Austria. Illuminating his face, and the cigar Austria clenched between his teeth casted a shadow down his chin.

Austria breathed in deep, and then nodded. Pulling the cigar from his mouth, once it was good and lit. "I do smoke sometimes, I guess," he said, glancing towards Germany, as he held back a cough. "But only on special occasions."

Germany withdrew the match, holding it nearer to his own mouth again, as if ready to blow out the flame.

"Wait!" Austria said. "Don't waste that. I always light as many candles as I can, from one match."

Germany narrowed his eyes, but stood, and walked to his brother's seat; holding the high flame to Prussia's face. To the cigar he too clenched, but between a fading grin.

Prussia plucked the cigar from his mouth. "You sure?" he asked.

Germany cocked his head. "Well, I once heard it's bad luck for three soldiers to share one match, but..."

"We're not soldiers anymore," said Austria. "We have no wars, nor enemies," he continued, speaking somewhat poetically. As if musing to himself, and not in the presence of others. "Go on," he said. "Saving matches saves money. Think of it as economizing!"

Ah, now he was speaking Germany's language.

Germany huffed in agreement, and lit his brother's cigar.

***

Once the table was cleared of all but the centerpiece and the wine glasses, Italy rejoined the smoking trio, and wilted to his seat. Wanting to smoke too, but cigars were a bit gruff; he had only brought them along for the sake of the burlier Germans. And one extra, just in case. Thinking Austria might smoke a pipe -- some fatherly device -- or perhaps not smoke at all! Who knows...the way Italy sort of waxed romantic the image of Austria. He adored the man, and made no effort to hide it. It was nice to adore someone; without ever questioning it; without the other one ever complaining. Except for when he was small, and Austria would refuse to let Italy sleep in the bed with him. That was always a disappointment. Wanting only to feel safe, while scared in the night. Perhaps when a storm raged on, outside their shared home, or when Italy was sad, once Holy Rome had vanished.

He took from his pocket a pack of cigarettes he usually hid from Germany (but if everyone else was smoking, why not?) and slid a sleek and unfiltered cigarette from the pack. Reaching across the table, Italy placed his fingers upon the candle, and with the cigarette between his lips, he pulled the candle's tip towards him, and breathed in, making the best of the light at hand. The flame already lit! And you don't have to waste matches, Mr. Austria, but you sure as hell don't have to economize either. Light each candle with its own match, and use the candles to light your own fires, to let the romantic mood be set by sweet smells and soft glows akin to something nostalgic. Evocative of 'the days of old', when candles _had_ to be lit, before going to bed. Or while dining at a banquet; dancing in a ballroom; all the lavish events...they felt so outdated now: one of the drawbacks of being immortal. But it was also a perk, to remember such lovely things; the drawback was knowing: it would never be that way again.

And Italy let-go the candle, settling back into his chair. "Ah," he said, "feels good to be full," as he patted his stomach, and smiled at Germany.

The solo candle upon the mostly-cleared table. Casting a rosy light in the room, lending to an air of happiness...and if not happiness, than at least to an air of contentedness.

Germany smiled at Italy, in return, and kicked up his feet, to rest them upon an empty chair. After a moment, though, he found it troubling to watch his lover smoke. 'It's bad for your health! Don't do that!!' he wanted to scream. What a hypocrite. But...perhaps Germany cared more about Italy's health than his own health; perhaps Germany loved Italy, more than Germany loved himself.

But in an effort to avoid analyzing his own vices, and to avoid the sight of his boyfriend smoking the cigarettes Germany knew damn well Italy smoked in private, and in secret, he glanced away from Italy, to steal a peek of the man who only smoked on _special_ occasions...

Germany's old housemate. The man whom Germany dined with, at that same table, for several years...the two of them often alone. Without a centerpiece glowing in its center. The man whom was too stubborn or too lazy to decorate tables, or prepare meals for him at all, even on nights when Germany was tired. Even at the end of long days. When Germany came home from working, or from a battlefield, or some war-related assignment...Austria would sigh, and complain, 'Well if you want me to fix dinner, then...I suppose I can tire myself out, and do it for you...if it'll please you to see me in pain,' and Austria would whimper and pout, with kittenish features, and watery eyes until he got his way. And Germany would prepare the food, and set the table, and damn near feed Austria with silver spoons; the ones Austria had brought along, when he moved into Germany's house. Silver spoons, to stir his tea, and eat the food Germany prepared for him. But Austria would sometimes bake a cake for Germany, which was fine, but...Germany liked baking his own cakes! And Austria made such a damn mess in the kitchen. 'Why are there explosions?!' he'd often ask. But Austria would throw a screaming tantrum over how happy Germany should be for Austria to take the time and effort, to put all his hard work into a cake; to slave over a hot oven, and 'You're so ungrateful, Germany!' he'd weep, like a housewife who's had a long day, with her husband off at work, and she's done none of the cleaning, nor any of the cooking, save for a cake, and just what kind of a housewife was Austria going to be to Prussia, anyway?

'Scratch that,' thought Germany. 'Not a housewife...'

Austria was no more a new housewife to Prussia, than Italy was a future housewife to Germany. He didn't ask Italy to cook for him, nor clear the table once the meal was finished. Italy just preferred to keep himself busy while the three Germanic nations were talking about things Italy didn't want to hear about: whether it be problems within the EU, government issues, strife amongst their fellow EU members, or even the logistics of the upcoming Oktoberfest, which yes, was the topic of conversation, as the meal came to a conclusion. Best to let the 'so-called family, for nation's sake' have their bonding time, and Italy was quite fine with keeping busy, carrying plates. Singing silly songs. He didn't mind.

But Germany had dubbed Austria his nagging housewife, once upon a time. And now, he wondered how apt that title was; how fair it was...or unfair, to Austria. Germany pulled the cigar from his mouth, and wanted to spit, and it was strange, really, how poor cigars tasted with wine, and he wished he had a beer. Not wanting to request Italy bring one to him, and not wanting to leave his seat...so for a moment Germany toyed with the idea of asking Austria to bring a beer to him. But ah, Germany sort of laughed, but sort of cursed in his mind, 'You know that guy would scold me for that...He always did, when _we_ were married.'

'Not married,' he cringed. 'Not an ex-husband.'

\-- Germany had to correct himself sometimes.

Whatever Austria had been to him: it was a strange thing for Germany to think about. It was all his boss's idea. It was all out of Germany's hands. _He_ didn't want Austria to move in with him. He didn't want to take that snobby aristocrat -- 'That guy! - I'll kill him!!' he had said to a superior, in reference to Austria, upon learning of the proposed Anschluss -- but once Austria had moved in, maybe...it was nice, at times, to have someone always there. To have someone, to see, first thing in the morning. (If Italy hadn't slept over.) To have someone waiting -- always waiting -- whenever he got home.

Even if they were destined to fight, over who would cook supper; who would bake the cake; who would clean the kitchen after the explosions. - Who would run the baths, and doctor the wounds, and wash away the dirt of the day. Treat the bleeding cuts, and severed dreams, and bruised egos; broken spirits. Surely not Austria. Germany did most of the work, and Austria was tugged along for the ride.

That was the story, right?

The story they had stuck to. And Germany and Austria were two men who always got their story straight, before anyone thought to ask. Except in some foggy patches, where things could never be set straight. Such as that one afternoon upon a couch. On that day of which they never speak. And even as Austria had waited up for Germany that night, to return home from his date with Italy...they didn't mention anything. They let it fade into some memory, lest Italy ever catch wind of it. Why hurt the sweet one? Why let Prussia make fun of them, both had agreed. Getting their story straight...and hiding the book, France sent to Germany. And only sometimes, did either of them think of what the pages told them to do, or what the lesson (no matter how unfinished) did, to ruin any potential 'family' relationship, or to tarnish any form of 'friendship' the two may have possessed.

Once upon a time.

Ah, but. Not an ex-husband; not an ex-housewife, Germany thought. And as he glanced at Austria, he took a swig from his cigar, and thought Austria appeared to be in an odd state -- odd for Austria, anyway. Like the air of contentedness encircling the room (along with the thick haze of smoke), Austria seemed to be in a similar 'rosy', though muddled, state of peace.

"Well," said Prussia, interrupting what the three countries had thought of as a _pleasant_ silence, but what the civilian thought of as, the irritating dead silence! And he sneezed, due to boredom, before continuing, "This was fun and all, but we have to get going." He dropped his cigar into his glass, extinguishing the heat. "Honeymoon's not gonna take itself!"

Austria glared at his husband, as if stunned and offended, but Prussia stood, and pushed his chair beneath the table. Making wide eyes, and motioning for Austria to join him.

"What's your hurry?" asked Germany, leaning forward to ash his cigar, yet he missed the tray, and ashed onto the table, and he didn't even scold himself for making a mess! Because sometimes...wine got to Germany's head. His red-tinged hair.

Italy laughed. "You two could always sleep here with us!" he said; and he sipped the last drop from his glass, before spouting, "Like a sleepover!!"

Austria fingered at the stem of his own wine glass, casting his gaze to the wall of the room, lest he have to stare up at Prussia and his ever-growing 'mean face' a minute longer.

"We haven't even had dessert yet!" Austria said. "Italy baked a cake for us, and I wrote our names on it with frosting. - Please sit down..."

So no one was ready for the couple to leave, except Prussia.

Fine. But no one in the room was living and breathing on borrowed time, except Prussia!

"But...," he stammered, "we've got a reservation! I called and booked a room while I was changing upstairs, and...," his voice shot louder, "they don't just give away those things for free, you know!!"

"I suppose you used my credit card?" asked Germany, feigning nonchalance at first, but then through clenched teeth, and while pointing towards his brother, he added, "I knew you took it! - You're giving that back before you leave!!"

Austria began to rise from his chair, but lingered: half-standing, and half-sitting; as if contemplating his ability to loom in mid-air, if only he could levitate upwards a bit; bent-back at the table's ledge; or perhaps he pondered how obscene it would be, to suddenly sprawl across the mostly-cleared table, like an overgrown cat, desperate to take a nap upon a smooth shiny surface, lit by the centerpiece, and maybe, just maybe, he could play dead, in the warm light, and Prussia would leave without him.

Instead of dragging out the fight -- it was a wedding night, after all! -- Austria sighed, and rose, and stretched, as if he had only been too tired to stand straight all at once.

"I do think it's best we don't overstay our welcome," he said, "but as Italy suggested, I'm more than fine with waiting until tomorrow."

"Like hell we will!!" Prussia said. And he grabbed Austria by the wrist, bending the 'Kiss Me, I'm Prussian' bracelet with his strong grip, to lead along his new husband from the dining room, to the foyer, in a near-instant, and full-blown huff. Gathering Austria's coat and gloves, as Germany and Italy hurried along to join them.

And there were kisses good bye on the cheek, from Prussia to Italy, and Italy to Prussia; from Italy to his once father figure, yet Austria opted to kiss Italy, in return, on the forehead; and kisses on the cheek from Germany to his brother, and Prussia to West, and then hugs all around, except from Germany to Austria, and from Austria to Germany, who settled for chaste handshakes. No kisses or hugs between them. No arms thrown about the other. Just 'Hmm-s' and nods, and quick slight glances. The only way the two still knew how to say, 'Here's hoping for the best for you.'

And as soon as Prussia had helped Austria into the sleeves of his coat, it was out the door, and on their way.

'Finally!' thought Prussia.

And Italy threw one last handful of rice or macaroni. One last reminder of: It's your wedding night, so be happy, all right??

"Good luck!" Italy called from the open door of Germany's foyer, as the two newlyweds disappeared from sight, on their way to Germany's spare car. Bought in Germany's name, but designated as Prussia's vehicle, yet the latter always had to acquire special permission to drive it. As long as he wasn't grounded.

Treated as a child, and at least those days were behind him now, thought Prussia.

The crickets chirping in the background were of no comfort, as Prussia took Austria's hand, and helped his new husband into the car. Without a word. Without a sound except for the wind blowing over the tree-lined drive; the slamming of car doors, and the shutting of Germany's front door. A chapter closed, in the life of Germany sharing a home with his older brother. Of having an ex-nation living in the bedroom down the hall. Of wondering, Just why do Big Brother and Austria never get along??

Germany gave himself permission not to deal with it anymore. Prussia could take care of it himself, or maybe, it was Austria's problem now.

Either way, the men in Germany's mind went quiet that night, thanks to the wine. But the men on Germany's shoulders smirked, as Italy and Germany sighed, with that look in their eyes, and the two unmarried men shut off the overhead lights to say 'good bye' to the married couple outside. And who needs a wedding or a honeymoon, when you can just grab what's left of a bottle of wine from the living room, and the ceremony long dead, and run upstairs to sprawl across a bed you're more than familiar with?

Maybe there was bliss to be had, without making things official. Without setting it in stone, or signing paperwork, or scrawling it atop a cake. To write fake names in permanent ink or sugary sweetness to make you feel like you're two regular people with a whole 'full' life ahead of you.

***

On the highway, Prussia drove, with Austria buckled in the passenger seat. Luggage in the trunk. An unfolded map in the backseat, along with Gilbird, who slept. A raindrop trickled onto the windshield. Another, and then...a downpour. The proverbial bottom fell out! It's impossible to see storm clouds in a night sky; gray on black, and lightning struck an unseen piece of ground, in the distance, and thunder soon rumbled, and you know the drill.

_It was a dark and stormy night..._

"You know what they say about rain on a wedding day," said Austria.

Was this a riddle? thought Prussia. "What the fuck?!" he said, after a moment; once the statement had seeped through his brain, past the blissful fog of sudden matrimony, and the ignored elephant in the room of 'Now I'm a human; I'm not a country anymore,' and he could deal with that in the morning. The next day. Next month. Next year. Sometime. Lay it on the table; postpone indefinitely. We'll pick this back up later. Meeting adjourned, now let's get drunk!

"Let's just get to the hotel room," said Austria. "Never mind."

Prussia shot a quick glare to his husband while shifting gears. "No, you brought it up!" he spat. "You meant something sneaky by that...I don't know what."

Austria shifted his weight, and eyed the dashboard. The speedometer. The arrow losing an arm wrestling match to Prussia's iron heavy foot.

"You're going a bit fast," said Austria. "It is raining, you know."

Prussia laughed. "Oh it is? I haven't noticed!!" He lifted a hand from the steering wheel, and fished into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

"You're not going to smoke in the car, are you?" asked Austria. He cringed, and raised his chin, and pretended to smooth the pleats of his pants. You can hardly see wrinkles in fabric, in a dark car, barreling down a dark highway, in a black night, in a storm, and...

"No, I thought I'd just eat it," Prussia said, flicking an unlit cigarette into Austria's lap.

The country screamed, as if the cigarette was lit. He swatted it into the floorboard, and stomped it with his shoe. Afraid of a lack of fire, and heat, and you can't be burnt by something not yet started. Someone had cold feet, two and a half hours after the wedding ceremony. Too late to back out of the vows, ah, but the consummation was still on the bleak horizon, lit only by dull headlights.

"You know," said Prussia, "I am the one driving this car. I'm the one looking ahead! Of course I can see the rain - you think I can't see it? What's right in front of my face."

He shifted gears again, and the tires seemed to glide on ice; covered in oil; and from the hot rubber, the water surged so high and hard, the car was Moses, and the autobahn the Red Sea.

"You didn't want to marry me," said Prussia. "Hungary was right for once!" He took both hands off the wheel, and plucked another cigarette from his pocket, then ravaged the dash in search of a lighter.

"Prussia!" said Austria, leaning over to place a hand on the wheel.

The car veered into another lane, and thank God no one was coming. No one could see the madness of the honeymoon getaway vehicle. 'Just Married' written in white shoe polish across the back-dash, thanks to Italy; of course, his decorative testament deserved the amendment, 'And they're already fighting'.

Half-washed-away text, due to the rain, and now all it said was 'Just'. Four little letters, and Prussia knew they weren't L-O-V-E.

"Just say it," screamed Prussia. "Rain on a wedding day," he smirked, and nodded. "You meant it...you meant it." He repeated the phrase, lighting the cigarette; inhaling, and a harsh laugh intermingled with the smoke he exhaled. "But you meant it at the ceremony, too." He put his hands back on the wheel, one atop Austria's, not letting his husband retrieve it to the safety of his lap; to his precious wrinkled pleats; to the comfort of his well-defined space in the passenger seat. "You meant it. - I saw you. - You almost cried."

Prussia spoke as if trying to convince himself. Ashing on Austria's wrist; down his sleeve. Staining the cuffs of his jacket. Gray on a white suit Germany also purchased, so what if Prussia ruined it. For a while, he was 'Germany' too. If the East side is unified with the West side, then why not? Why couldn't he stay immortal?! Italy and Romano were both allowed to serve as 'Italy' as a whole, so why not Prussia?? Why did HE have to die?!!

The arrow of the speedometer began to gain strength, and bend back towards zero, as Prussia's foot eased from the gas pedal; as he realized...

Because Romano was born to serve as half of a country; Romano was born to carry a weight alongside his brother. Prussia wasn't born to be half of Germany, and he couldn't keep the title, no matter how much he had lost or suffered. This was it now. A person; a regular person, on his wedding night -- married on a rainy day, and it's bad luck; a bad omen -- but ah, there was the hotel. A wide sign, with lights beneath it, to illuminate the name.

Prussia pressed the breaks, and nearly hydroplaned, but kept the car in between the lines; so what if he almost messed up? He aimed, and hit the driveway; one smooth turn. Sometimes life looks to be a bumpy ride; rough-edges, and rocky starts. But the person behind the wheel can see more than you can, what's up ahead. And they get a feel for the road, and the destination at hand is reached without the need of input, or criticism, or worry from the passenger seat.

Prussia parked, and turned off the engine. Austria's hand, still grasping to the wheel.

"You can let go now," Prussia said.

A heavy scolding of how Prussia nearly killed them (or at least one of them) was to follow; "And on our wedding night!" Austria screamed, as Prussia searched for an umbrella, and failed to find one. He ran through the rain, with a hand to his eyes, to enter the lobby, and ask for one. Came back, shoes pounding on wet pavement, and he nearly tripped, to open the passenger door, and escort Austria, beneath a shared umbrella, to the dry comfort and safety of the awning-covered entrance. Why Prussia didn't unload the car there, and then park, is a mystery, but Prussia was only human, after all.

He unloaded the luggage, and got soaked, for he couldn't hold everything. Why he didn't get a baggage cart...why he didn't ask for help...why he didn't do a lot of things. Questions left unanswered, as the two checked in, and rode upstairs, slippery shoes squeaking on tiled floors. Sloshing across the ugly carpet leading to their hotel room. Throwing luggage onto the bed. Bags packed by Italy and Germany, and who knows what they stashed in there. Also, the sleeping bird, wrapped in the road map. And the lace-trimmed bag, containing a corset. Unbeknownst to them, it also contained a bill for the ruined wedding dress. Tucked in at the last minute. Ah well. Germany could take care of it. He had settled worse debts.

Prussia asked, "You want to shower first, or me first?" He had no idea how these things worked; not showers, but showers while married. Did they wash together? Did they bathe together, and shampoo each other's hair? Fuck, he had never been married. Not like Snobby Austria. He and all his precious marriages. All his weddings. All his wedding nights! God, the thought turned Prussia's stomach. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he said, choking out the words. He ran to the door of what he assumed was the bathroom, with a hand to his mouth, and aimed for the toilet, and missed.

"Rain on our wedding day," Austria mused, once looming on the threshold of the bathroom.

Prussia sat on the floor, hunched; his arm draped across the toilet bowl. -- 'God, the germs!' somewhere Germany screamed. Or maybe he was screaming 'Oh Italy!' in the throes of love-making; only the Devil and the Angel on his shoulders knew for sure. -- And Prussia wiped his mouth on his sleeve, staining his wedding suit with puke, and Austria's was stained with ashes, and Germany's with wine, and only Italy had escaped the ceremony unscathed. Physically and emotionally. And Prussia loosened his tie, and smiled a sick smile. Finishing his husband's thought...

"Rain on our wedding day, and puke on our wedding night," Prussia shook his head, and groaned.

"Some future," Austria said.


	15. But You're Not Superstitious, Are You?

Austria lifted the bedside phone, and made a call to the front desk, to request the services of a janitor. Prussia, in his weak state, had mumbled something about mopping up the mess himself.

\-- "I can do anything!" cough; gag; "Just give me a mop, and I'll prove it, Spoiled Brat!!"

But Austria refused to allow it; he helped Prussia to his feet, and led him to the bed, which Prussia refused to touch. And there was a lot of refusal in this honeymoon suite; on a wedding night, you'd think the air would be sweeter; and smell sweeter. Ah, but...Prussia shook his head 'no', and retreated to the chaise lounge in the corner; like a kicked dog with his tail between his legs, opting instead to curl into a ball, and face the nearby window.

"Open the curtains," Prussia said.

Austria pulled the cord, letting the curtains swing, retracting to each side. A theater, and the show was about to begin! The curtains drawn apart, and the only thing on stage was a storm. The view of rain, and black, and the occasional bolt of lightning. Prussia hoped it would strike the balcony. Catch the whole damn place on fire!

"You want me to open the door, too?" Austria asked, motioning towards an exit to the balcony. A slender door leading to a small space; to the ledge beneath the window, with a railing, two chairs, and a small table with an ashtray. "Maybe you could sit out there, if you're so desperate to be sick, and mope."

"YOU THINK I WANTED TO GET SICK?!" Prussia screamed.

The janitor knocked on the hotel room's main door, and Austria scurried away, slinging his coat and gloves to the bed; smoothing his tie, and adjusting his glasses. "Just a minute!" he said.

Turning back once more, to scold Prussia, with narrowed eyes. "You do as you please, then," Austria said.

Opening the door, and allowing the janitor to enter; showing him the bathroom, and yes, he must have ate something which turned his stomach; something didn't settle well! Too bad Prussia had forwent the beer and potatoes, in favor of Italy's fine cooking, and red wine. God damn wine! That stuff never treated Prussia's body with the respect it deserved. Too sweet; too thick. Something.

Austria watched as the janitor cleaned the bathroom, and he was fine with such things. All the messes he had cleaned up, while caring for Italy as a child. Hungary was squeamish about such things, and Spain was never home. HRE was always off fighting. So when Italy ate too many sweets, or ate from the garbage, while searching for pasta, it was always Austria who bore the mop, and carried the bucket. Swashbuckler of the bathroom floor, in the House of Hapsburg, at 3 AM, with Italy crying in the corner. In a nightgown. Clinging to a stuffed toy, or doll, or whatever soft thing he could find; whatever soft, sweet play-pretty Austria had bought or made for him. He really was a sweet dad (while in control of his temper), to a precious 'daughter', later son, and no matter how much Romano tried to convince others of Austria's failure as a parent, Italy knew better; assuming he remembered.

Prussia tossed about on the chaise, tugging at his wet suit, failing to get comfortable; kicking off his shoes. "What's taking so long?" he asked the ceiling. He peered into the floor, where the road map was folded into the shape of a nest, as if it were a colorful piece of origami. "Gilbird?" he asked. "You comfortable, buddy?" He leaned over, and poked at the head of the sleeping bird. "You okay down there?" He poked again, hoping to wake the bird, but Prussia failed at everything that evening. "You think I could squeeze down there with you??"

Prussia laughed at the thought of shrinking to the size of a fist, and crawling into the confines of the map's folds. Sleeping on the fine lines leading from Berlin to Vienna. The hearts of the countries were their capitals, and those two were probably Sister Cities! Twin or Partner Towns. Too bad Berlin belonged to Germany now...

Prussia was heartless.

"But since I married that Snob," whispered Prussia to no one, "I guess my heart is Vienna, too."

Prussia's birthright, The Teutonic Knights, is indeed stationed in Vienna, and it made sense to Prussia, and he smiled.

He pet Gilbird, and peered over to the man standing in the doorway of the bathroom. On the threshold, stood his new groom. In a white suit, with a stained sleeve; ash smeared onto the cuff, and a couple of pinpricks burnt into the fabric, like the tiny soot holes in a grandmother's robe, when she sits too close to the fireplace in winter.

The night was blacker than the stains, and the storm raged on, as the water in the mop bucket sloshed, and the wheels beneath it rattled, with a shrill screech, as the janitor pushed and rolled the mop-in-bucket from the bathroom. "All finished!" he said.

And Austria smiled, and stepped from his way.

The janitor stood, an awkward grin, as if expecting something. 'Perhaps praise,' Prussia thought. But Austria knew...he fished his wallet from his pant's pocket, and handed the janitor a folded banknote of unknown amount. (Unknown to Prussia, anyway.)

After the janitor signaled 'thank you', by the wave of his hand, from his forehead to Austria's general direction, he cast his eyes to the indisposed Prussia on the chaise, and nodded, as if to say, 'Well, there you go, you poor bastard.'

Carting away his mop-in-bucket contraption, the amiable janitor exited the room, and eased into the hall, with one last echoing screech of the wheels. Shutting the door behind him, to count his tip in private.

"Just how much did you give him?" asked Prussia, holding his sides. "I would have done it for free!"

Austria groaned, and tossed his wallet atop a low bureau. "You be quiet," he said. "Start feeling better, already!"

As if Prussia had a switch on his back, he could throw into the 'well' position. As if his health was a mood he could somehow overcome.

Austria said, "I don't want to spend the first night of my marriage like this."

Prussia attempted to sit, but swayed, and grabbed ahold of the edges of the chaise. " _Our_ marriage," he said.

He leaned back, and burped. Red-faced, he said, "Excuse me," and thought, 'Damn Cute Italians...maybe tomato sauces and grapes don't mix as well as they think! Not like beer and potatoes...' but he shushed away the thought, by smiling, and fumbling with his buttons.

"If you throw up again," said Austria, in reference to Prussia's audible indigestion, "I'm getting my own room!"

"Fine by me," said Prussia. He slid further up the chaise, by placing his feet flat, and kicking his legs; propping himself up on the built-in pillow and natural curve of the furniture. "Come do this for me!" he finally shouted, after only managing to unfasten a single button of his powder blue three-piece suit.

Austria loosened his own tie, and stomped across the room. "You child," he said, and knelt to the bedside of the sick Prussian, and the regular guy, otherwise known as Fritz. "You're helpless," he continued to belittle. "Just what am I gonna do with you?!"

Prussia didn't cry; tears didn't well; he didn't feel small, and stupid, and worthless. He didn't hate himself in that moment, or wish he had never rushed into marriage. Perhaps Hungary was right; perhaps Prussia could have dated around, and met new people, and...

"Shut your eyes, and it won't happen," said Austria. He flashed a small smile, and patted Prussia's cheek. The same words he had spoke to Italy, countless times. Somehow, Romano never listened; it never sunk in, by the time he left, to live with Spain -- Romano's preferred father figure, though Romano would never admit it, and God knows, as Romano grew, he saw Spain as less-and-less of a father figure, and more as a 'friend', and later, as a 'lover'. Italy never felt such inclinations towards Austria, which was fine by the latter. Who needs a lover, who was a former son! Earlier daughter. 'What a strange way to be,' thought Austria, of his ex-husband Spain, and his lost son, Romano. Austria had always preferred lovers to be spouses; for lovers to never be a country he raised. But perhaps that parental instinct had never left him, and caring for Prussia, as if he were a child, was one of the only ways Austria knew how to show love.

"You're going to scold me for crying?" Prussia asked. He sniffled, and watched as Austria eased onto the ledge of the chaise, and undid each of Prussia's suit buttons; then each of Prussia's vest buttons; carefully, with the long, skilled fingers of a surgeon: if pianos were bodies in need of repairing. And here lied a sick man, with too many clothes; too heavy of garments for a sick man with a fever burning, from too much wine, too much smoke, or too much excitement in one day and night. Especially the afternoon and evening. Too much acid in his stomach, and too many doubts in his heart, and fear in his mind. Tears in his still open eyes.

"I'm not scolding," said Austria. He undid each of Prussia's shirt buttons, and placed a hand behind his husband, leaning him up, so he could slide each garment from his body. "Here we are," said Austria, shedding the clothes to the floor.

Prussia leaned back shirtless, onto the chaise, and grinned, a bit sheepish. "And here I thought I'd be undressing you tonight," he said, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his thumbs.

"You be quiet, and rest," said Austria. He pried off his shoes, and crossed the room, to turn off the lights. Returning, he undid his own suit buttons, and unfastened his pants, casting them over the side of the bed. His suit jacket, he threw to the floor. Gilbird cheeped, as the rush of air from the discarded clothes hitting the carpet awoke him. And Austria slid his boxers to his ankles; stepping out of his shorts, and nudging them beneath the lounge, to wear nothing but a button-down shirt and a silver cross necklace and the ‘Kiss Me, I’m Prussian’ bracelet, as he climbed onto the chaise, and stretched out next to Prussia. "I guess we could sleep here," he said.

"I guess so," said Prussia, and with a weak arm, wrangled Austria on top of him. Austria, with his ear pressed to Prussia's heart.

"It's kinda funny I'm gonna die now, huh?" asked Prussia.

Austria leaned up, facing the other, though in the dark, he could make out only an outline of Prussia's face. The window allowed little light to shine in, and whether or not Prussia's tears had subsided, was anyone's guess.

"If by funny, you mean awful, then yes," blurted Austria. "What an odd thing to say..."

Prussia laughed, and stroked Austria's Mariazell, which tickled at the underneath of Prussia's chin. "I just meant...it's strange. Because now you're gonna outlive me...by forever! I guess."

Suddenly Austria's stomach didn't feel so well. He winced, and rose to sitting again, on the side of the chaise. "You were going to die either way," said Austria. "At least now you can bet on a few more decades."

If Prussia was in his twenties, and the average man lives to seventy or eighty, surely there was a lifetime ahead! But a blink of the eye, compared to the span of life granted to the human personification of nations. Prussia himself had already lived at least eight or nine centuries.

Living to seventy or eighty years old hardly sounded impressive, by comparison. So he had maybe fifty years left?

"We never even had a proper date," Austria said, as if speaking to the night, and not to Prussia. "We never even went on a date..."

He fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist: in lieu of a ring on his finger. A familiar feeling, for Austria, though God knows it had been years since he had wore a wedding ring; and those were always political things; this...this was his first marriage to a regular human. "We never even kissed before today!!"

"So," said Prussia, reaching up, to rub Austria's shoulder; to try and slide the shirt sleeve down his arm, not realizing the shirt was still buttoned. "We saved time this way."

Austria snapped, "You mean, YOU saved time!" He snatched Prussia's hand from his shoulder, and stood from the chaise. As if giving in to a high-pressure salesman, he huffed, and undid the buttons of his shirt.

Prussia tried to make out Austria's actions in the dark of the room. Squinting, hoping for a bolt of lightning to illuminate the suite. "That's right," he said. "You still have all the time in the world."

Austria dropped his shirt to the floor, and stood naked by the chaise. "I married you," he said. "Isn't that what you wanted? The first thing to cross off your list??"

Lightning struck -- Prussia's hope -- and the silver cross shone, and this was his favor from God, and Rome, and the real Fritz -- the Father, the Grandfather, and the Fatherly Ghost -- and Prussia got exactly what he wanted, all right: a naked Austrian within arm's reach.

But Prussia placed his hand to his heart; without Gilbird sitting upon it, or without Austria's ear pressed against it, it suddenly didn't seem to be keeping time. It was beating faster than coherent thoughts could come to him.

"Yep," he said. "Now I need to have kids."

Austria loomed near the chaise, rubbing his toes at the carpet; pulling his glasses from his face. "Prussia, you can't have kids," he said.

"Well, maybe now that I'm a civilian I can," Prussia pondered. Considering the mere technicalities of his situation; wondering whether or not his physical state had been altered in such a way, to permit something the other personifications could never hope for.

"Oh yeah?" asked Austria. "You're not immortal anymore, so you think now you'll be allowed to have children, since you won't outlive them by centuries...?!" he sort of scoffed, but then softened his tone and slowed his speech, as if struggling to break bad news, "Even if you can have children, Prussia... _I_ can't be the one to give them to you."

Prussia laughed. "You think I don't know that??" he asked, and winked in the dark, and it's too bad his husband couldn't see it.

Austria sighed. "I suppose if it's that important to you," he said, "to father a child, then...maybe I'd allow you to make," and his words trailed off, and back in, and his heart ached to propose such a plan. "I mean, _we_ could make some sort of an arrangement," he said. His face went hot, and he took a deep breath, and he spoke quicker, "Maybe you could meet some nice normal girl who wants a child, and I could still be your husband, and we can keep it all a secret."

"Would you shut up with that?" Prussia asked, in the roughest tone he had used all night. "I wanted YOU for my last meal, didn't I? And I don't want any side-dishes!!"

A hand aimed, and it hit its target; Prussia's wandering palm found Austria's wrist, pulling him down to the chaise, and into Prussia's arms. "Heh!" he said. "We'll just get a kitty cat, then, and dress him up in a top hat, and bow-tie, and I'll take him to tap-dancing lessons every Tuesday afternoon." He laughed, and snuggled at the arch of bangs of the naked country atop him. "Fritzy Jr.," he gushed.

Austria thought he must be wearing invisible clothes -- and wouldn't Switzerland be proud? All the money Austria had saved on his consummation gown (assuming there was such a creature); all the money he had saved by not buying one, and going to bed donning nothing: a piece from the poor man's after-hours trousseau! Prussia was unfazed, though, and seemed more content to blibber-blabber about kitty cats in top hats. Well, fine. Whatever he wants. Gotta make the human happy; gotta make his life full, and worth living. Keeping Prussia afloat for five short decades would hardly be an obstacle course Austria couldn't conquer, unless he ran out of breath or good humor.

"And why not name him after me?" Austria asked, of their future feline son.

Prussia scoffed, "No thank you, _Grimm_."

A name chosen due to Austria's fondness of the Brothers German; naming himself after the Brothers Grimm. And West had said he was honored! Prussia, however, would have preferred Austria to pick a more playful name: Prince Wilhelm von Lederhosen, perhaps, or even the simple 'The Piano Man' would have sufficed! - I mean, why pay homage to both East AND West? Prussia had wondered. Ah, but...a naked Austria in his arms, _by any other name would smell as sweet._

And the two rambled on, into the night, before finally shutting their eyes, and softening their smiles, with short kisses, and 'good nights', and maybe a few giggles about 'husband and husband' versus 'husband and wife'. And they slept: unshowered, and unsexed. Oh boy, what a honeymoon. On a chaise lounge beneath a window, where a storm raged over the city of Berlin. Germany's heart. And once, it was Prussia's heart, too. A wall built between them. And it beat for only one man. Okay, maybe two. But Germany had Italy, and now Prussia had Austria, and the love poems in diaries, and the sonatas by the skilled hands of a pianist, would surely soon write themselves.

Fritz N. Schnitzels and Grimm Schubert: I now pronounce you a couple of lovesick idiots.


	16. A Cheap Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few months prior to writing this chapter, I attended an anime convention, cosplaying as Austria. And in the hotel, the carpet was ugly, and the place was packed. I could find no baggage cart, and had to make several trips to haul all my bags into the hotel, in the freezing cold rain. And one of the elevators was broken, and therefore, the other one was chaotic. And so there was this girl -- a fellow con-goer -- manning the elevator, and she was so memorable, I used her (diamond earring and all!) as the basis for the girl Prussia sees on his way downstairs.
> 
> As for APH Nikoniko: A former micro-nation; he's the only character in canon Hetalia who has reverted from personification to civilian, and is now living a 'normal' life.
> 
> A big inspiration for this novel was Hima stating: If one of the full-fledged nations were to undergo the same transformation, it would prove to be a more difficult change.

In the morning, in the hotel suite, Prussia awoke to a blanket of Austria: naked, stretched out atop him. He cocked his head, and peered down, as if resting beneath something as absurd as a layer of donuts. "What's all this?" he asked, and snickered. He tugged at Austria's haircurl. "You're not wearing any clothes..." he whispered. And shut his eyes, and grinned, as he ran his hands lengthwise, along smooth curves, 'til his fingers reached the backside of his husband. "I see no London, I see no France, Austria has no underpants."

He sang silly songs to himself, and squeezed at Austria's cheeks. "Stretchy," he said.

Austria grumbled, still half-asleep. "You do it, Germany..." he said. "I don't want to go to the meeting."

Prussia squinted, and spread out his palms. "You call me 'Germany' again, and I'll spank you!" he said. And without being called by his brother's name a second time, Prussia proceeded to play Austria's ass like a drum.

Austria opened his eyes wide, and lifted his head. "The hell do you think you're doing?!" he said.

"Bongos," said Prussia. Patting away. "You're the music buff, you tell me - what does it sound like to you? Beethoven, maybe??" Prussia banged out the opening of Beethoven's 5th: three notes on the right cheek, and one on the left. _Dun, dun, dun, DUN._

"STOP THAT!" shouted Austria.

Prussia wrapped his arms around Austria, and cooed, "Mmm, Austria blanket: so warm, and fun."

Having his neck nuzzled at sunrise was an experience long overdue, in Austria's life, but awaking to an exuberant husband, on the first official day of their honeymoon, was enough to make him crave coffee, and solace; he'd seek the latter in the shower, 'And then maybe room service?' he thought.

Austria arose from his makeshift bed of a shirtless Prussian, and stepped from the chaise. "I am not your blanket, and I am not your toy," he said, as he scrambled for his clothes; the white suit jacket he had cast to the foot of the real bed. Quick to cover himself.

"I see my awesome drumming did nothing for you _down there_ ," Prussia laughed.

"Why on earth would it?!" Austria said. His stomach growling, he peered towards the phone, while struggling to tie his suit jacket around his waist, to wear it like an apron -- to look much akin to a butler in a sexy cafe, specializing in coffee and cake, and half-naked waiters; something straight from Japan; a manga character with bed hair; a regular Bishie drawn into real life -- he made a beeline for the oversized menu, tucked beneath the lamp on the nightstand.

With the sleeves of the suit jacket secured into a bow, Austria scoured the menu's illustrated pages. "You want any thing?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Prussia, "I want you to get your sweet ass back on this chaise, and let me play a rimshot."

Austria rolled his eyes, and dialed the phone. Ordering room service for himself, because Prussia didn't deserve any breakfast, he thought.

"I'll have a pot of coffee, and ONE croissant," he spoke into the phone.

Prussia whimpered. "But I want fancy, French twisty-bread, too!!"

Austria slammed the phone's receiver onto its base. "Then you should have answered me seriously," he said.

Prussia mocked the words, without making a sound; just moving his mouth, and shaking his head, finally asking, "What are you, my father now?!"

Austria sauntered to the bathroom, and leaving the door ajar, threw his jacket/apron out onto the floor. Turning on the shower, he called, "Be sure to open the door for room service when they arrive." He peeked his head around the corner, and glared at Prussia.

Prussia returned the narrow-eyed threat, and gritted his teeth. "I'm gonna eat your damn croissant," he said.

And once Austria had ducked into the bathroom again, and after the sound of a rustling shower curtain had met Prussia's ears, he tossed onto his side, and stared up at the bare window; at the orange light shining in at sunrise. "Traitor to his own country," Prussia said. "He could have asked for a Kipferl."

***

While Austria showered, Prussia rummaged through the bags packed by Italy and Germany. He donned a black t-shirt, to go with his powder blue dress pants, from the wedding night prior; the ones in which he slept. And he wandered outside the room, in socked feet. Hair a mess. Gilbird perched on his shoulder. Scuffling along, humming some catchy song from the 1980s. _99 Luftballons_ , most likely. And he ran his fingers along the wall, until he entered an elevator, standing off to one side, as a bald girl ('Was she born bald? Go bald? Did she shave her head??' Prussia wondered) worked the key pad.

"Going up or down?" she asked the occupants.

Prussia just mumbled, "Lobby," and glanced at the floor. He wiggled his toes, and counted shoes. Eight pairs, and ninety-nine balloons, and one bald girl, wearing a single diamond earring, he noticed, as his eyes reverted back to the makeshift operator.

She pressed buttons, and stopped on floors, allowing more people to enter. More shoes for Prussia to count. But he stared at the diamond, and cursed himself for having promised Austria a ring, and giving him only a cheap bracelet. And I hope he doesn't shower in it, Prussia thought. It may fall to pieces. The words may run. The dye may drip. 'Kiss Me, I'm...' Blank. 'Kiss Me, I'm Fritz!' Prussia could re-write it, but...maybe the new ink would wash away, too.

Nothing seemed to stick.

Teutonic Knights, to Prussia, to East Germany, to Civilian.

Only one other country had made such a dramatic change, as that last transformation. A micro-nation in Japan's home: Nikoniko. No longer needed to personify a micro-nation, he reverted to civilian; to living a 'normal' life. To fathering a son.

So it was possible, perhaps, for Prussia to father a child, but the actual act required for creating offspring wasn't exactly what Prussia had in mind: not for his new life; not his idea of a good time. He had mentioned the possibility to Austria, only for the simple wish of wanting someone small to take care of. Never meaning to imply they could actually reproduce together! And besides, 'A child in the form of a cat would be perfect for them!' Prussia had thought. Kitten-face Austria could be Mommy, and Prussia could be Daddy, and he was glad the side-dish conversation died when it did. For Nikoniko may be a country turned civilian as well, but he must like women to have fathered a son, and Prussia deemed such 'acts required' could stay about five million miles away from him. - No thank you.

Aside from their personal preferences, the only real difference between Prussia and Nikoniko's altered existences -- their new lives, post-personification -- was the stipulation put upon Prussia's 'deal'. To live a full life: or else! And Nikoniko's transition was easier, having never been a 'full-grown' empire. Prussia, by all Heavenly accounts, should have faded over time, and finally died the other night, and gone home with Rome, yet...

"Here we are!" said the girl at the helm.

On the ground floor, Prussia barged from the elevator, and into the open arms of the oncoming crowd. Was this a bad dream? People with luggage, and scowling faces, and impatient huffs; fixed hair and bad smells. Clothes befitting of business meetings, and other lackluster events. 'This isn't the type of a place for a honeymoon,' he thought. Or maybe he feared it. Perhaps he should have looked for a more romantic place. Then maybe he and Austria would have been more successful in consummating their abrupt nuptials.

\-- Of course it was the hotel's fault!

He scuffed along, looking for a dining hall. A continental breakfast bar, with precious croissants. Buttered and free. Just the way he liked it. Who needed Germany's money, anyway? The credit card returned to his little brother, in quiet, when they hugged and kissed 'good bye' last night, and now Prussia was broke. At least Austria was rich. Not as rich as West, but ah well. Prussia would get a job, sooner or later, he thought, as he spotted a sign which read, _'No Food in the Lobby'_.

"Hmm..." he said, and walked in circles; walked backwards; toyed with baggage carts. "Where were these when I needed one?!" he said to himself, and jumped aboard a golden one, and asked Gilbird to push him. Heh. He saw a bellhop glaring at him. "Austria, is that you in disguise??" Prussia giggled, and ran down a poorly-lit hall. He peered in doorways, and witnessed convention proceedings. People in chairs, talking about God knows what. 'People are boring,' he thought, and sneezed twice in a row, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 'I hope I'm not catching cold,' he thought, although it wouldn't put much of a damper on his and Austria's holiday. God knows, it was already 'damp' enough.

Austria emerged from the shower to find his breakfast awaiting him on the unused, still-made bed. Tight-tucked sheets, and folded-down comforter. A silver tray with a blue vase and a red rose. A croissant beneath a silver hood. A silver carafe of coffee. Two overturned mugs.

"We could have split the bread, I guess," he said, as he towel-dried his hair. His Mariazell, dripping a single drop of water onto the floor, as its tip swirled into a heart-shape.

***

On his way back through the lobby -- still searching for a free meal -- Prussia passed a gift shop. Teddy bears in the window. Bouquets of flowers. Little heart-shaped balloons. And if he wasn't out wandering around, without any shoes, and with a growling stomach, perhaps he'd know there was something heart-shaped awaiting him in his room.

The hotel suite smelt of coffee, and a recently-ran shower. The head still dripping. The floor still wet. The mat soaked, with Austria's footprints imprinted in the fabric. Two dark shapes, like the impressions embedded in the concrete, in America's Hollywood. Sidewalks boasting footprints, handprints, and signatures: proof of existence, left by the famous; many of whom are now ghosts.

 _'Prussia was here'_ , the human self-dubbed Fritz wrote in the fog -- on the glass -- with his finger, after huffing his breath onto the gift shop window. He smiled, and ventured inside, to play with the bears; to roll a toy train atop a table; to sit on the floor, and spin the metal tops.

"You have to buy something or leave, Sir," said a young man behind a counter, as he peered down at Prussia's socked feet.

Sprawled on the floor like a toddler in a waiting room, waiting to be called back for a teeth-cleaning. Real dentists are scary, and so are salesclerks, Prussia had learned, from the Snooty Bridal Store saleslady.

"I just wanted to have a little fun," Prussia said.

He stood, and plucked Gilbird from his shoulder, and set him on the toy train. "Can my bird play, at least?" he asked the salesclerk.

The man shook his head 'no', and pointed towards the door.

As Prussia traipsed past the display of more mature offerings, he plucked a flower from a bouquet, and tucked its stem behind his ear. A white carnation. And Gilbird flew from the motionless train, to Prussia's head. Sniffing at the flower, and Prussia shushed the bird. He turned to wave 'good bye' to the salesclerk, but thought better of it: the flower and all. And Prussia ran from the store, forgoing the elevator, in favor of the stairwell. A lone man on the steps, jaunting up several flights until he reached the eighth floor and the threshold of his and his husband's hotel suite.

"Austria!" he said, pounding on the door, having forgotten his room key. He turned to see if the salesclerk had followed him...thinking he heard footsteps.

"Austria!" he repeated, leaning his head against the door; seething into the seam of where the door meets the frame, "Open up!!" he called.

The crack of light shining near the floor soon went gray; dimmed by a shadow, thanks to two feet.

"Who is it?" came Austria's voice, as he loomed, peering out through the peephole.

"YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHO IT IS!" screamed Prussia, both palms flat against the door, staring through the peephole, too; of course, he couldn't see inside the room; he couldn't see Austria, no matter how hard he struggled to; no matter how hard he tried, only Austria could see a red-violet eye staring back at him. "Your husband, remember?!" said Prussia.

Maybe Austria had forgot, feared Prussia. Forgot the marriage, and forgot him! Maybe Austria had slipped in the shower, and suffered amnesia!!

Prussia whimpered; his voice shrill, "You do remember me, don't you??"

The doorknob clicked, and turned; the door swung open, to reveal Austria with a bleached white towel tied around his waist, and another towel, draped about his neck and shoulders. "You must be the new janitor," said Austria, eyeing Prussia from top to bottom -- his socked feet and sloppy attire -- and then his gaze settled on the flower above Prussia's ear. "Or maybe you're Hungary."

"I am hungry, actually," said Prussia, bustling past Austria, elbowing him gently in the stomach. Pretending to elbow him, at least, but gracing the skin, nonetheless. Skin to bare skin.

Prussia lifted the lid of the breakfast tray, and grabbed the croissant. "Split it?" he asked.

Austria nodded. "Split it _even_ ," he said.

***

The two newlyweds sat on the edge of the bed, and ate; drank coffee. No conversation. Prussia set his stolen carnation on the nightstand, to comb his hair, and to watch Austria dress. Or undress. Eyeing his body, as Austria dropped the towel, and you can keep women about five million miles away from Prussia, and put Austria in their supposed place: about two inches beneath him would be nice; or two inches he guessed...imagining them horizontal, and trying to calculate that small space near the vertex filled only with breath, and hushed sound; and in the other direction, wilting planes of an acute angle; maybe eight inches, then zero inches, then four inches? Three, two, one -- re-draw and re-fire -- and Prussia did odd math equations in his mind. Smirking over perverse geometry as Austria donned one of Prussia's blue button-up shirts and a pair of his khaki pants: stashed in a bag by Italy and Germany. Otherwise, it was a quiet morning of silent crossed-paths; like an old married couple, with nothing to say. Just routine. Packed bags, and brushed teeth, and Gilbird tearing the road map into bits, strips, jagged squares. A rat's nest in the corner of the hotel suite.

Prussia plucked him from it, and shushed him as he cheeped, flapping his wings wild, protesting the forced eviction from his newfound bed. "You can make a new one at our next stop," said Prussia, and kissed Gilbird's head before setting him to the pile of belongings to take with them. Austria's grape juicy coat and gloves. The stained white wedding suit, stuffed into one of the bags, along with the remainder of Prussia's wedding attire, and his shiny white dress shoes.

And he leaned over, cramming his socked feet into a pair of red sneakers which Austria had set out for him. High-top, obnoxious red sneakers which Austria hated. The laces barely tied. Sloppy knots, and long strands dangling down; stained and broken, split-end aglets. The toes smudged with dirt from his daily walks through Germany's garden. The flowers West grew were gorgeous, but nothing compared to the small patch of plowed land where Prussia grew potatoes. His 'Fritz Patch', he called it.

Grabbing his flower from the nightstand, Prussia re-situated it safe behind his left ear. "Ready?" he asked Austria, who was counting the money in his wallet, before stocking it into his pant's pocket, along with Prussia's car keys.

"Mmm-hmm," said Austria. "But I'm going to drive this time."

"Oh God," Prussia mumbled. "If you get us lost, and we end up in Russia or some shithole, I'm gonna divorce you!"

Austria smiled a smug grin. "You can't divorce me," he said, and then as if revealing some daunting secret; widening his eyes, and raising his chin, but keeping his tone playful, he whispered, "I _am_ Catholic."

"I knew it!" Prussia shouted, feigning shock, but then he winked. "I wondered why you didn't say Mazel Tov at the wedding...I wanted to hear glass breaking!" And he pulled Austria close, to rub his nose at his husband's cheek. Half-flirting and half-threatening, he purred, "To make up for it, I'm gonna break a wine glass on your head tonight."

Austria laughed, but stared as if questioning, 'Why my head?!' And his brow crinkled in that cute little way Prussia adored.

Skimming his fingers down Austria's arms, Prussia nosed upwards, as if wanting to bump the glasses clear from Austria's face. Having learned from their adventure in the Snooty Bridal Store fitting room, kisses can be tough to give when one man wears glasses.

Austria brushed away Prussia's advancing hands, pulling away, to grab the breakfast tray from the bed. But hearing Prussia sigh, Austria glanced back, teasing, "I think I'd rather you play another drum solo, instead."

***

They left the breakfast tray near the door; outside, in the hallway. The silver lid atop the empty plate. The breadcrumbs untouched by Gilbird, who was perched on Prussia's head, sulking over his lost road map nest. Prussia bent over and picked the red rose from the vase, and handed it to Austria. "Here," he said, as the two walked the aisle of the hotel hallway; the eighth floor; peering over the balcony to the busy lobby below. "You'd look pretty," he added, motioning the rose towards Austria's ear. "We'd match!"

Austria smiled, a crooked half-smile, and took the rose, reluctant; sniffing it. "Well, if you want me to," he said.

Austria lowered his bag, to set it on the ugly orange and green diamond-patterned carpet. The low-lit hall. And two couples walked towards them. Two men, wearing white crisp shirts, and dark pants, like Bible salesmen, or Mormon missionaries, perhaps. And beside each man was a lady; two women: well-dressed, and in high heels. Beige outfits, and neat-kept fingernails clutching to simple purses.

The two couples seemed content to ignore the happenings in the hall, but as they grew closer, they smiled at Prussia and Austria, who appeared to be in the midst of some proposal. Prussia having offered a red rose, by outstretching his arm, to pass the rose to Austria, and all the silver-haired man needed to do now, the ladies thought, was bend to one knee, but ah, he did that yesterday morning, didn't he? - Too bad they missed it.

Prussia diverted his attention from the approaching couples; the couples who seemed to study his and Austria's every move.

They want a show? he thought. I'll give them a show!! Haven't you ever seen two men get married and go on a honeymoon before?? Haven't you ever seen an ex-nation and a country in possible love?! ('Possible' being the red-lettered word in Prussia's mind.)

He stepped towards Austria, as the couples slowed, and he plucked the rose from Austria's grasp. "Here," he said again. "Let me." And Prussia leaned in, and slid the rose stem behind Austria's ear, careful to smooth his brown hair into clever wisps around his face; his immaculate jawline; that soft skin, and pouty mouth, and it was all perfect, he thought.

"There," Prussia said. "Now you're even more beautiful!"

Austria's face flushed red over what was possibly the best compliment Prussia had ever paid to him (as if marrying him wasn't a compliment in and of itself!), but he glinted his eyes to the couples, and then back to Prussia. "Keep your voice down," Austria whispered. Enunciating hard and near-silent, he added, "We're in public."

Prussia laughed. "Fuck 'em!"

He grabbed Austria by the shoulders, and pulled him in, and kissed him.

A deep, yet unwanted kiss, yet...if Prussia's tongue weren't so damn quick and sharp, and his breath seem to radiate heat into Austria's mouth, surely Austria would have shoved his husband away. PEOPLE ARE WATCHING, thought Austria.

PDA makes all Germanics nervous. But not Prussia. Fuck them with a capital F. For the sake of his wedded country, he did place a hand between he and Austria and the eyes of the two couples, now dead-in-their-tracks; to block his and Austria's ever-moving lips. With his other hand, he squeezed the back of Austria's neck.

And hands were placed on Prussia's cheeks, in spite of Austria's temptation to push him away. Surely by now Prussia was satisfied; had enough; got his fill; his rush, of so-called 'fucking' the watching couples.

But Austria pet Prussia; his hands felt at home. His thumbs rubbing cheek bones, and eyes flittered open; long lashes, and smiles broke the kisses.

"You cheated," said Prussia.

"You peeked first!" said Austria. "You always peek..."

"How do you know, if you keep your eyes shut?!" shouted Prussia.

And despite their bickering, they held hands, and walked down the remaining length of the hall, with flowers in their hair.

The couples 'awwed', and for the most part, had only stopped and stared over the novelty of seeing a grown man with a yellow bird atop his head. And yes, the flowers had caught their attention. But certainly, it had nothing to do with two grown men on holiday. Two grown men with their hearts on their sleeves, right where they should be, on the first official day of their honeymoon.

***

Austria smacked the hotel room key onto the front desk, and made a laundry list of complaints; ranging from the cost of room service, to the amount of time it took the janitor to mop up Prussia's puke; to the bed being too uncomfortable to sleep in; the sheets too rough, and the bedspread too thin, and "It looked dirty," he said. "We didn't want to touch it!"

\-- Of course that's why no one had slept in the bed; why on earth wouldn't it be the reason?!

The front desk clerk apologized multiple times, until Austria stuck his nose in the air, and huffed.

"Very well," Austria said. "But we'll never stay here again."

Prussia giggled, and pushed open the glass door of the hotel. Through the parking lot, the couple meandered; their hands found each other again, and grasped tight, letting go, only to unlock the trunk, and stash the baggage.

"Where to next?" Prussia asked.

Austria lied by shrugging, and exalted himself to the driver's side door.

Behind the wheel, he checked mirrors, and fastened his seatbelt.

Prussia fell into the passenger seat. Kicking off his red sneakers into the floorboard. Curling up, and sticking an unlit cigarette between his lips. Not wanting a fight, he kept it unlit. Just for show. Just for the taste and feel. No longer needing it to calm his nerves. And he pulled up his t-shirt, exposing stolen goods wedged beneath the waistline hem of his pants. "Here," he said, and winked. "I almost forgot...I got a gift for you!"

Prussia withdrew a road map -- plucked from a rack in the lobby -- and passed it to Austria. The second item tucked into his pants was a gift for himself: a pair of black sunglasses he had swiped from the front desk while Austria was scolding the clerk.

Shading his shut eyes, as if he were famous...Prussia donned the dark glasses, and let the cigarette hang from his mouth, and he almost instantly fell asleep. All tuckered out from a poor night of rest, and from waking up early, on the first official day of their honeymoon.

Unbeknownst to him, it was also the last.

And Gilbird hopped from Prussia's hair, unlatching the glovebox with his beak. Crawling inside, with fluffed feathers, he peered up at Austria, and chirped, as if he too questioned their next destination.

Austria smiled. Comforted by the sight of the cozy bird, and his snoozing husband. The new company he kept. 'And it'll be nice,' he thought, 'if nothing else, to not have to spend each day alone from now on,' and he folded out the road map, as quiet as he could, upon his lap.

Gilbird eyed the map jealous, but nestled down, contented, for what would be the long drive from Berlin to Vienna.

"We're going home," Austria said.


	17. Over the Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the Threshold: A tradition amongst newlyweds; the groom carries the bride into their new home, to bless it, and to fend off bad spirits, bad luck, etc. Or perhaps the tradition has something to do with virginity, for there's an old, and surely outdated belief, stating if the bride isn't carried, she might get overexcited, and run into the house, and people will think her too willing to lose her virginity! As if only the groom should be excited?? How silly.
> 
> Austria in a Wheelchair: This is a canon fact, but as far as I know, Hima has never stated _when_ Austria was confined to a wheelchair. My theory is, it was during the ten year span, from the end of WWII, until his return to sovereignty in 1955.
> 
> It's a Wonderful Life: One of my favorite films of all time! The main character, George Bailey, seems to influence almost every story I write. He's a man who feels he was robbed of his dreams, by the choices he made (to get married, and have kids; to work a full-time job) until an angel shows him, life is full of little things, and great people who care about you. People who need you. And if Prussia could be like George, and go running through the streets, at Christmastime, screaming out in delight, 'Merry Christmas!', instead of sulking, 'I'm so happy being alone,' then...I'd be thrilled for him.

Austria drove from the parking lot of the hotel, pulling out onto the autobahn, headed in the wrong direction. As if driving back towards Germany's house: his most frequent-made stop while venturing in Berlin. Although Austria usually traveled by train; or hell, maybe he walked.

\-- How on earth the countries can journey from their own home to the home of other personifications in a low amount of time is preposterous to normal human beings! Yet...on one occasion, Italy ran from his bed, through Switzerland's yard, to Germany's shower, all in one night!!

But Austria caught glimpse of a road sign, and made good use of an exit. Circling around, he pointed the car in the right direction.

Easing along at a conservative speed...

Huffing to himself -- and perhaps cursing in his mind, his predisposition for getting lost -- Austria peered down at the road map again, and then over to Prussia in the passenger seat. His husband still sleeping, and unbuckled, so he could rest in comfort; cozied-up into an almost crescent-like shape, and dare Austria think it: 'A croissant!' Sitting upright, versus lying longways on a plate. His legs bent, and knees aligned to his chest. Dark glasses still shading Prussia's shut eyes, yet the cigarette had long fallen from his lips, to hide itself in the folded confines of powder blue fabric; wrinkled dress pants. Brushing past his thighs as it fell, and it's a good thing the cigarette was never lit.

Now Prussia's mouth hung somewhat agape -- and no wonder the cigarette had escaped! -- and 'He drools in his sleep,' Austria thought, as he smiled at his husband's sleepy-time face.

Glancing back to the road ahead; through the dash of the car, and up to the rearview mirror: reflecting the word 'Just', still etched onto the back-glass, yet due to the downpour on their wedding night, its legibility proved diminished. The white letters speckled, and worn thin. As if pressed onto the glass by way of sponge painting, thanks to a weak hand. An artist with a half-assed technique. But no. Italy had meant the words, 'Just Married', or at least the sentiment they provoked, with all his sweetest intentions. Thinking it nice, and romantic, and all those lovely things: how Mr. Austria and Prussia were actually going to wed! For the sake of Prussia having a life outside of being an ex-country. And whether or not Austria wanted to go through with it, well...

Italy had no idea. Germany had no idea. Prussia had no idea, and a trail of drool running clear to his chin.

'What an idiot,' Austria thought, as he gazed over at Prussia again. Ah, but he thought it in a gentle way, and with a grin on his face.

Reaching out, Austria tugged at Prussia's cheek, and why on earth the personifications enjoy tugging and poking and squeezing at each other's cheeks, especially while the one being tugged-at is asleep, is beyond normal reasoning. Perhaps it was embarrassing for the countries to be caught sleeping? Using photographs of each other's sleepy-time faces for the sake of blackmail. Maybe they feared 'to be seen sleeping' was proof of weakness?? Sleeping on the job! Countries can never rest?! Well, Prussia didn't have that problem, anymore, and he snoozed, and drooled, and cocked his head a bit, as if his neck alone was in search of a pillow.

Turning back to stare through the glass, and the noonday sun shining in bright, Austria squinted, and wanted to steal Prussia's stolen sunglasses. 'Why does he need them?' Austria thought. 'He's sleeping through it all!'

Gorgeous countryside passing them by, or maybe they were passing by the gorgeous countryside. It's strange to think how a body of land can lend a soul to them. A home to them, for they are their homeland. A flat stretch of green, and trees, and it was all so poetic, when thought of as, 'I sprang from this place, and marched forward into morning, and represented a whole nation of people. - A whole long history.'

Not a cloud in the sky to mar the horizon. Just a harsh burst of light.

Austria clicked on the radio: maybe to keep him company, or maybe in hopes of awaking Prussia.

He tuned it to the classical station, and hummed along a bit. Quietly, though. Because surely Prussia deserved to rest.

\-- He may not have deserved his breakfast, Austria had deemed, but he got it, didn't he? And now surely that kiss in the hallway had earned Prussia a nice sleep, and...

'What a sweet thing to give a red rose to me,' Austria thought, upon peeking at his own reflection, perhaps once first checking the rearview mirror for a vehicle denoting law enforcement, and whether or not such a vehicle, and therefore, an officer, was following him. I'm sure they'd be interested to know if Austria even possessed a driver's license! But ah, he enjoyed the sight of himself, and peered for a moment, forgetting the legalities of the situation, and thought, 'I guess I do look kind of pretty like this.'

Austria's smile widened, and it was nice to feel pretty. Maybe not all men wanted to feel as such; maybe most men wanted to feel handsome, or buff. And ol' prideful and boastful Prussia would most likely cringe if someone called _him_ pretty, but...Austria was the 'pretty' type. The softer kind of man, who liked to feel nice and pretty; who liked to be noticed from time to time. Wearing glasses he didn't need, in order to look less plain. Fixing his hair into that clever arch of bangs, just to frame his face, and look more stylish or refined. Wearing clothes from the old days, though, was his own eccentric way of feeling and looking more dignified. Whether or not Prussia liked it, and whether or not it annoyed anyone was of no concern to Austria. He'd wear what he damn well pleased, and if Prussia didn't like it, then...

'Well, he asked me to marry him,' thought Austria, 'old clothes and all.'

 _Coats from the 1800s_ was an exaggeration on Prussia's part -- as stated in his improvised proposal -- but Austria did like wearing old coats, and his old pants, and wearing cravats or jabots, or just whatever those silky neckties he always donned were called; Prussia didn't quite know anymore, but God or Rome or the real Fritz knows: Prussia once wore them, too.

If only while decked-out for some formal business or grand dinner party, or special or holiday engagement. Prussia indeed went through a phase of dressing regally. He had to! They all had to, at least from time to time, don fancy clothes.

And for a year or two, Prussia had even stopped cutting his hair, and had worn it long, and with a ribbon in it; tying it back, like Old Fritz. And he had learned to play the flute, like Old Fritz. And now...

He called himself Fritz.

How befitting, thought Austria, of Prussia's self-chosen human name.

Surely all the personifications had 'human names' for when they needed them. Now whether they chose those names for themselves, or whether they were given those names, by some superior, well...who knows, really. The personifications are a bit of a mystery! Welcomed amongst the human population, and well-loved by their own people. And in most cases, they're well-loved by their superiors, but...sometimes, the country doesn't feel the same way.

If they were lucky, however, they'd end up like Prussia and Old Fritz: the epitome of an ideal match, and who were indeed closer to one another than Austria had ever been to any of his superiors. He cared for many of them (if not most of them, in some form or other), and felt a kinship to a few of them, sure. But...he didn't learn to play the piano for their sake. He was born knowing how to play! And he had never styled his hair to match them, after they had passed away. How could he? With that sprig atop his head. That haircurl, which was an anomaly. Only a handful of the personifications bore one. Such as Austria, and Italy and Romano; the Italy Brothers, whom Austria once considered his sons, or at least something akin to sons. Only Italy, of course, remained in such a light. And then there was their grandfather: good ol' Grandpa Rome, who also possessed haircurls, hinting Austria was somehow the makeshift missing link between the grandfather and the grandsons. Who knows; maybe he was; maybe Grandpa Rome was responsible for Austria's looks, as Germania was for Austria's bloodline. Though how the personifications spring into being, from the nation-based entities already in place, is anyone's guess.

Hands gripped tight about the steering wheel, Austria's thoughts trailed off further -- out on a limb of his family tree -- and across the ocean from him were America and his brother. Both born with ahoges, despite their lack of relations to Austria and the Italies.

Yet America's brother had a long curl, which dangled to the side of his face, instead of perking upright or outwards, and Austria thought it strange, how he couldn't recall the brother's name at the time, despite staring at him across meeting halls on countless occasions. And then there was America, with his somewhat similar sprig of hair -- similar to Austria's, that is; not in size nor shape, but the general placement of it -- and his somewhat similar pair of glasses: though whether or not America needed his glasses, Austria wasn't sure. But he liked the man (the one whose name he'd always remember), even if they hadn't spoken to one another a great deal; at least not since the end of the Cold War era.

A time when Austria and Prussia were locked away from one another. And Prussia had wrote long letters to Austria. Much of the text blocked-out, thanks to Russia. But the letters were sent, and the letters were read; the letters were kept, tied into bundles, based on year, with blue ribbons, and housed in a box marked 'East', then stashed in Austria's attic. A few of the best, or so he deemed, were kept in the top of his bedroom closet.

The letters Prussia had sent around Christmastime were always Austria's favorites. Long letters, with less text blocked-out than in the usual letters; the words more kind; the sentiment more noticeable than in Prussia's day-to-day correspondences. Not so much about 'This is what I've been doing, and this is how it's going, and how are you, Smug Face? How is life treating you??' but:

'It's Christmastime, and I miss you. - I miss you, I miss you...'

And Austria re-read those letters every holiday season. To see Prussia call him sweet names for the first and only time in their long existences. No, not Smug Face, nor Fussy Britches, nor Spoiled Brat, nor Little Master, but, 'Dear Austria, My Old Friend...Merry Christmas! I wish I could see you. I'm not sure if I'd hit you, or hug you and kiss you. Ha ha ha. You better think of me while you're opening gifts and sitting by a tree. - I hope you think of me. - I hope you don't forget me.'

And he always signed his letters, 'From Prussia, With Love'. But in one particular letter of which Austria was quite fond, Prussia wrote a postscript after his signature:

'No wonder you wear old coats, Austria. It's strange how warm they keep you. How comforting it is. To know you've worn them year after year. Winter after winter. Nothing wears away the coat completely, even if the man who wears it gets worn away by pain, and time, and fear, but...it's not like I'm scared or anything, Austria. Just promise me you'll still be standing...promise me, you'll be standing on two feet again, once I break clean from this place. - I can't wait to see you standing there, Austria. Not sitting in a chair, but standing on your own two legs, and I'll run to you, Austria. I'll give you a hug, and we'll laugh, won't we? It'll be fun again. To see you again. To fight with you again! And I can't wait 'til the day I'm my own man again. - I think I will kiss you, Austria. Ha. How funny would that be? - Of course I'm only joking. - Just don't ever let Hungary read this. - I miss you, and maybe...well....that's just a pleasant daydream. But I need something to keep me afloat in this place.'

And Austria reached out, gracing his hand to Prussia's cheek. Running his fingers across soft skin. However, not to miss another prime opportunity for his own amusement, Austria tugged at Prussia's cheek again, and smiled. Yet while letting his gaze linger on Prussia's sleepy-time face a moment longer, his attention drifted to the unbuckled seatbelt, and Austria felt a wave of guilt. Wanting to give a tug to it, too. Pawing about in an attempt to reach the belt, so he could stretch it across Prussia's curled-up body, but...

Prussia winced in his sleep.

Austria jolted; surprised by the sudden movement on Prussia's part. And thinking he must have disturbed Prussia's slumber, Austria halted his actions. Waiting for another sign, which he soon received: by way of Prussia shutting his mouth, and cringing; making pained faces. And Austria couldn't see Prussia's eyes, due to the dark glasses, but he could see his lips: the way they twitched, and he grimaced.

Prussia's body writhed, and he arched his back.

And Austria wanted to reach not only the seatbelt, but the seat's latch on the side; to recline the seat; to lean it back further, so Prussia would have more space to lie; more room to rest. -- Maybe the seat wasn't as comfortable as it looked!

But Austria couldn't reach the belt, nor the latch, and so he sat, watching with a sort of feverish glare, emitting a helpless whimper, and waiting for yet another sign, this time of 'Maybe I should wake him,' all while keeping his eyes on the road and map: studying all three sights in hurried intervals, until...

Prussia mumbled, "I'm not doing that."

Austria withdrew his hand, and asked, "Do what, Prussia? - What won't you do??"

And he asked it quiet, as if hoping Prussia wouldn't wake fully, but would stay half-asleep, and answer the question from some depth of his subconscious. As if Austria was a poor man's Dr. Freud in the driver's seat! Let your subconscious speak to me, yes. What is it you won't do? What is it you're too afraid to do??

And it's too bad Austria _didn't_ smoke a pipe; some fatherly device. He could light it now -- a single man on a match -- and peer over at his husband, and play a game of armchair psychologist. Delving into Prussia's subconscious. Speaking to him from the threshold of reality. The brink of wakefulness. That odd sliver of light where life meets dreams.

"He must be having a nightmare," Austria said.

Now whether or not Prussia suffered from nightmares, Austria had no idea. He had never thought to ask, and Prussia had never offered such information. But after being locked away, for such a long time, one can only guess.

Despite Prussia's disturbed slumber -- disturbed by Austria, or disturbed by nightmares: he'd never know or tell -- Prussia at least rested well and in peace, for most of the journey, trusting Austria to drive them somewhere decent, in order to continue their honeymoon.

And Prussia had imagined, before falling asleep, he'd wake up 'fully', on the edge of some ocean; some beautiful beach, or sunlit resort. Not the type of a place for a business meeting! Some lovely vacation spot, where couples flock, in order to renew their love or lust; in order to pursue their nefarious intentions. Ah, Prussia didn't really know what he thought, or what couples did outside of movies and books; he had never had a real relationship: not of the romantic variety. Not a courtship, nor a love affair. All he had to go by, was Germany and Italy's odd understanding. Their 'friendship'. How they loved one another, but barely said it aloud. How they depended on one another, but seemed content to carry on, as countries who are close, and friends who are closer, and occasionally share a bed. And besides, Prussia didn't need to know; Austria had enough experience in marriages, and therefore honeymoons, right? So Prussia felt inclined to doze, and leave it all in Austria's hands. After all, Prussia had picked the first hotel, hadn't he? The first stop on their honeymoon. And he had did a bad job (or so he thought), in finding a romantic locale, so why not let Austria fail miserably this time, if one of them were to fail again.

A seven hour drive from Berlin to Vienna. Though perhaps due to Austria's peculiar abilities, as a human personification, he was immune to spending the 'normal' amount of time crossing the actual distance; perhaps the miles it takes to trek from Point A to Point B were reduced by some sheer force of magic!

Or maybe he _did_ drive for seven hours, with a map on his lap, a rose in his hair, a bird in the glovebox, and a husband in the passenger seat. A husband which Austria had no idea he'd have in tow: not when he left Vienna the morning prior, to go dress shopping with Hungary. Of all the men Austria could bring home with him; to already be married to him! - It felt almost like a punch line...

But Austria wondered, What was the joke?

And only a few stops were made, along the way; presenting only a few chances for the newlyweds to talk, and when they did, Prussia might as well have been drunk. Slurring his speech, and yammering about the scenery. Complaining about the music. 'But you like Mozart too!' Austria had shouted, and Prussia had yawned, and yes: he might as well have been drunk; he probably would have preferred it. To brace himself, or his nerves (or maybe his heart) for the realization -- to learn the news upon 'fully' waking -- the honeymoon wasn't _to be continued_ , but was already pronounced dead.

***

In the driveway, outside the two-story house, Austria parked the car. Sighing, and taking comfort in the sight of his brick-lined walkway, leading to a blue door, with a gold knocker. The white walls of his home, and opal-esque stones inlaid about the rose bushes, which bloomed beneath large windows with yellow, thrown-back shutters. A yard with a lack of weeds, thanks to Hungary. Grass sparse to save Austria from having to mow. A lawn like a balding man's head, should he have green hair: a punk rocker going bald, and growing old, and quick! Someone call England: I think he may be weeping into his tea.

Two gentleman, Austria and England. They could sit, and talk rose gardens, and sip Earl Grey, but no...to keep him company, Austria had chosen a less-refined man: Prussia in the passenger seat. Not so much a gentleman was he, but perhaps a punk rocker, or something close to it. Prussia played not only the flute, but the electric guitar, and wore leather pants to clubs or bars on random weekends, as if venturing out in disguise. Black leather gloves, with open-wrist cuffs and metal studs. One cowlick of hair slicked-up with gel. Silver mohawk-wannabe. A wave of silver tresses on which Gilbird could surf, and slide. And one fake earring at which the bird could peck. A ripped t-shirt, and if not leather pants, then at least skin-tight jeans. Red obnoxious sneakers. Only those remained, kicked-off into the floorboard, as Prussia continued to dream, despite Austria's attempts to 'fully' wake him.

Leaning over from the driver's seat, with a hand placed to Prussia's shoulder, Austria had shook the new civilian for a minute solid.

"Would you wake up, already?!" Austria said.

Prussia squinted through the shade of his dark stolen glasses. A man hungover from a sexless and short-lived honeymoon; from a long sleep, and long drive from his brother's country, to his husband's heart and homeland.

Prussia leaned forward, and stretched. "Where the hell are we?" he asked, though he knew damn well where they were, despite his eyes half-shut, and shaded; his words still slurred, as he yawned, and waved his hand 'never mind'.

\-- No longer in need of a response once he realized, but...

Austria nodded towards the palatial residence. "We're at my place," he said, and he smiled a soft smile. "Our place...I guess." The smiled faded, though, at the sound of his own statement, and his brow furrowed as if questioning his decision to bring them to Vienna. Suddenly fearing it had been presumptuous of him. Selfish, even.

Austria added, a bit sheepish, "If you want to live here, that is."

Prussia smoothed his hands down his powder blue pant's legs, and stretched out some more, leaning back, like a lazy cat who had fallen asleep by accident in the noonday sun.

He grinned, and by his tone, you'd think Austria was merely flirting with him...

"Are you asking me to move in with you?" Prussia teased.

Perhaps hoping for a moment of sincerity or a serious response, at least, and not getting it, "You act as if we have any other choice!" Austria snapped, as he turned off the engine, and climbed from the vehicle, slamming the door behind him...

To circle past the car, and walk empty-handed to the front door of the house; searching his pockets for the key. Absent on his body, due to the borrowed clothing, Austria kicked the welcome mat to reveal a spare.

"That's a stupid place to keep it," Prussia said, as he threw open the passenger door. Unbuckling the seatbelt he couldn't quite remember buckling, and cramming his feet back into his shoes, he stumbled from his seat. His long lean body unfettered by the cramped surroundings of the inconspicuous vehicle: a dull-color, and German-made, of course; bought by his little brother for the safety of it; not for its looks or speed, but for its unneeded upkeep; the comfort of stability. So very German of him.

\-- Prussia would have rather owned something bright red, and fast, and made in Italy, but what can you do, when Germany is the one paying for it? East will drive whatever West provides. It's not like Prussia could afford otherwise, nor scoot around in a car made of cardboard all his life. (But you'd think West would like cars made by Cute Italy? Ah well.)

Prussia forced his steps, lurching to the backside of the vehicle, to unlatch the trunk, and unload it. Packed bags, and their contents barely used or touched.

Gilbird swooped from the glovebox to Prussia's head, as Prussia shut the trunk; shut the car door, yawned again, and walked to the house with all their belongings in hand. Austria's grape juicy coat draped upon his arm, and if Austria wasn't so damn absentminded sometimes, he would have remembered his main house key was stashed in the pocket of his coat! But...why take the time to search for what you need, when you know there's a spare on standby?

Prussia followed the brick-lined path to meet Austria on the doorstep.

"Waiting for a train?" Prussia asked, as he greeted his husband with his red-violet eyes still hid, and a smile suggesting a man who was ready for yet another nap, but wasn't this reality in-between-dreams amusing? A man on a doorstep without a welcome mat to grace it -- to welcome its new guests! No, scratch that; its two new inhabitants -- for the welcome mat was kicked over into the bushes, upside down: a black wordless flag atop a batch of roses now hidden and crushed.

And with a single red rose still placed above his ear...

"You're supposed to carry me," Austria said.

Prussia stood and stared; he raised his black glasses, slow and dramatic, as if to say 'Are you serious?!' And as he did, he knocked the white carnation from above his ear. It swirled to his feet with a silent tap. And the silver hair about his forehead was brushed back; slicked atop his head to look much akin to West. Wearing the glasses like a double-lensed headband.

And Gilbird chewed on the thin piece of plastic which usually rested on the nose-bridge. Bending it all out of shape! Tiny little beak-marks, and bent plastic: almost breaking. Snipping at it, with crunches and snaps.

Prussia groaned, and dropped the bags to the concrete stoop; the small square of porch without a welcome mat; a patch of dark gray with a smaller clean patch of light gray, as if the slab had a farmer's tan.

"So you want me to carry you?" Prussia asked. "Are you that tired?? - That weak?!" he huffed. "Driving too much for you, huh?" And his voice grew quiet, "I knew I should have drove..."

Austria sighed, and he bent over to grab the key; mumbling profanity, as he unlocked the door. Once pushing it open, he turned back to Prussia, and crossed his arms. "It's a custom, Stupid," he said. "A tradition!" And he tapped his foot as if growing impatient. "The groom carries the bride over the threshold," he explained. "It blesses their new home."

"But your home is old!" Prussia said, gaping in through the dark entranceway. Cold air from within the house seemed to leak out onto the porch, as if the front door was actually the lid to a deep freezer! And God knows, Austria had turned off the heater while he was away, in order to save money on electricity.

"You don't have a house for us," said Austria, "so this will be good enough for you!" And he held out his arms, like a child wanting to be lifted by a grownup. "Just do as you're told," he said.

And so it began. Germany's prediction: come to fruition! An old maid with a whipping boy. A glorified servant, with a bane; a cross to bear, and an Austrian to carry on his back, or in his arms. Atlas with the globe -- with the weight of the world on his shoulders, or at least one country of the world -- and Prussia shrugged? Of course not.

He held out his arms in return. Scooping up his husband; lifting him from the porch.

And Austria wrapped his arms about Prussia's neck. His gaze sharp, and his nose upturned as if Prussia should feel lucky to carry him.

And hell, maybe Prussia did feel lucky. But you couldn't tell it by sight or sound. Prussia grunted, and shifted his weight, and pawed his hands about Austria's legs and back; and if Prussia were Germany -- if East were West -- he'd probably say, 'Fine, fine,' and act like Austria's bossiness didn't bother him. And if Prussia was like his brother, he'd hope to God the sweat on his brow didn't drip onto Austria's body while clutching such a refined man to his chest; while holding him tight, carrying him bridal-style, and he'd live to hear Austria thank him. But the words of gratefulness -- the overdue appreciation -- never came in such a verbal way; the most Germany ever got out of Austria was a simple hum of acceptance. 'I knew you would do it, Germany,' he almost seemed to say, by way of a brief sigh tinged with a musical tone. As if it eased Austria's pain to be carried, and hell, maybe it did. But one has to wonder, if Austria didn't enjoy his own 'delicate' nature. If he didn't enjoy 'needing' the assistance of the burlier Germans. God knows Italy enjoyed it, and Rome knows Italy needed it. And at least Grandpa Rome was thankful for it! Rome told Germany thank you; Italy told Germany thank you. Austria, however...was a different type of man.

And Prussia wasn't like his brother, in this respect. East _wasn't_ West. And Prussia had a quality about him Austria had yet to witness! Or if he had, he had brushed it from mind and memory. For Austria was forgetful; or perhaps just unobservant, but...Prussia was the type of man who _liked_ to feel useful! Who liked to feel needed. - Of course, Germany was the same way. Both brothers liked to be the strong one; both brothers WANTED to help. But unlike Germany, Prussia wanted to be thanked for it. Quick, someone praise him! Or give him a pat on the head. All of Burzenland. Whatever you've got for him, he'll take it. Bow down, and kiss his feet, or the tip of his sword, and thank him for whatever good or bad deed he just performed. Whatever feat of strength he just proved; whatever daring conquest he just braved; whatever war he waged, or battle he won, or victory he purveyed: Austria better say thank you. And if he did, Prussia would do anything, over and over and over again. Gladly!

But wanting to feel useful, could lead to feeling used, if those two little words went unsaid.

And so Prussia approached the door without a smile, for Austria said nothing; giving him only a prissy glare, as if he didn't really want to be carried? As if he was offended??

'What the fuck?!' thought Prussia, and he deemed the tradition stupid; cursing it, and cursing Austria's house, in his head, for the home was indeed old, and surely no longer in need of blessing; too late to bless it, and hell, maybe it had been blessed before! Plus, it didn't help to have Austria so silent and smug in his arms, without offering a single kind word or any of the lines Prussia was hoping to hear, such as:

'You're so awesome, Prussia! You're so strong!! - _I'm_ the lucky one! You're so sweet! - I'm sorry I ended our honeymoon early, but...this means the world to me!! - THANK YOU.'

\-- As if Austria ever spoke in such a way.

And now Austria didn't speak at all, so a grimace remained on Prussia's face, as he carried Austria over the threshold, and into the dark house. The old home the two would share.

Prussia walked onwards, and with Austria in his arms, they cast a wide shadow across a wood floor in need of sweeping. And in the far corner of the entranceway stood a dying plant in need of watering. And scattered along the walls were a dismal array of unlit candles atop small tables in need of dusting. And obstructing their shared shadow, from above, hung an antique chandelier on which Prussia nearly bumped his head. 

"You do this for Hungary when you two got married?" he asked. "Did Spain do this for you??"

Not quite waiting for an answer - not quite wanting one, Prussia slid his arm from beneath Austria's legs, and shifted his weight again, to set Austria's feet to the floor. And Prussia glanced away; peering about the room. To distract Austria from the previous questions, he blurted, "You never change this place!"

And Prussia laughed, and Gilbird chirped, and the front door shook, nearly shutting, thanks to a sharp wind blowing outside. A strong breeze, blowing in a cold front, and, "You better go and turn on the heater," said Prussia. "Or maybe I'll build a fire for you...if you ask me nicely," he grinned. And ah, there was that smile again. Hoping to do something -- anything! -- to give Austria another chance to be sweet to him. To be grateful of him. To let Prussia prove, What a good husband he is...

Carrying his husband over the threshold brought about no 'thank you' (or even that pristine hum Germany liked so well), and no, to be carried wasn't requested _nicely_ , but if Austria wanted to be treated like a bride; as if he were entering his own home for the first time; as if he had never been married before; to be carried for the sake of his honor, without damage to Prussia's pride, then yes. Prussia was glad to make Austria feel like a bushing bride, or newly-wedded virgin, or whatever the hell it was Austria wanted to feel, or wanted out of his husband!

\-- Prussia wasn't quite sure...

But despite his deeming the tradition stupid, Prussia was happy to hold the man...to be close to him; he was just tired for some reason. Just a bit worn out from a long drive. A drive he had slept through, for the most part, as we know. Except for the few times he awoke, to see Austria with his hands on the wheel, and a map on his lap. And after fighting over Mozart, Prussia had leaned forward, and turned down the radio, and asked, 'We're not in Russia, are we?! Because if we are, I swear to God, Austria...' and wiping eyelashes from his cheeks, Prussia had seethed, 'You can forget all about that awesome drum solo I promised! - You're getting the wine glass treatment!!'

And 'Does this look like Russia to you?!' Austria had screamed, while pointing towards a road sign bearing German text; the name of a German town, or an Austrian town, or...who really knows now, where they were at that given time.

\-- Hell, maybe it was the Czech Republic.

But Prussia had zoned in and out, and fell back asleep, and never once knew, as we know, how Austria would reach out, and sort of graze his hand across Prussia's face, until Austria's gaze would shift back to the road; back to the map. Hoping to God he _didn't_ get them lost; hoping to God they _didn't_ wind up in Russia, though surely, Austria would've had to stop at a gas station, and could have asked for directions, should he even have gotten close to approaching that country! But ah, if he had wound up driving to Hungary...

Austria had fretted: Maybe Prussia would divorce him!

And so he had stayed on the road, headed for home; stayed between the lines, at his conservative speed, with his seatbelt tight, despite his immortality. Fearful of injury, if nothing else. But what about the civilian in the passenger seat?

If Austria had struck a tree, or a guardrail, or a road sign bearing German text; should he have plowed through the wall of some building, thanks to a lack of GPS (and you'd think Germany would have installed one in Prussia's vehicle! How careless of him...but then again, if he had, Prussia couldn't have given a road map to Austria, as a wedding gift), the civilian would have flown headfirst through the dashboard, and then what?

Austria would be a widower: something he had never endured, and no thank you. At least he was used to being divorced!

To lose Prussia...to have a wreck, and end his life...to know Prussia was a mortal now was a huge weight on Austria's mind.

And so of course he tugged not only at Prussia's cheek, as he drove, but also at the seatbelt, as we know...desperate to click it into place, but when Austria failed to do so: what Prussia didn't know, and what every living creature failed to notice, for there were no passing cars; there were no witnesses, to see Austria pull over to the side of the road, somewhere long before Vienna...

On the outskirts of some lifeless town, once Prussia was fully asleep again, Austria had pulled over, and parked the car, and from his place in the driver's seat, leaned over his husband's body, fastening him safely into place.

And did his husband thank him? Of course not. Was Prussia grateful?? Of course not! And did Austria care? Did Austria even mention it??

Don't be silly.

Who, except Prussia, needed praise, anyway?

Besides, Prussia needed to remain oblivious, Austria had thought. 'He'll feel weak if he knows I'm taking care of him. He'll feel guilty if he knows I'm scared!'

And so it went. Austria replaying the afternoon in his mind. Wishing he had drove them elsewhere. Second-guessing his request to be carried. Among other things...

In the center of the entranceway, Prussia shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. "God damn it," he said. "You might as well have drove us to Russia! It's freezing in here," he whined. "Quick, what do you want, Austria? The heater or the fire?"

"Hmm," said Austria, as if he couldn't decide. Standing in the last bit of light allowed to pass on the far side of the near-shut door. Now taking little comfort in the return to his home, due to the odd remarks made by the husband in his foyer. "Yes...I'll go turn on the heater, then," he said, not wanting to ask nicely for the fire; for thinking he asked nice-enough for the gesture of being carried over the threshold; a gesture Austria thought sweet and romantic, and Prussia had been a bastard about it, Austria had deemed. So why ask for much more? Why risk it.

He pushed the door shut behind him, latching it tight. And the entranceway went dark. "I guess I should have left the heater running," Austria admitted. "But I didn't know I'd be away for a whole day and night!" he sort of laughed. "I thought I was going dress shopping, and then coming home..." and he smiled, amused by the realization he had a wedding and a honeymoon in the interim of a shopping trip; amused by the whole absurdity of the situation, finally catching the joke to the punch line -- to find yourself making a big decision in life, while you're still waffling around and planning for it; jumping from a plane before you're equipped with a parachute, but managing to land on your feet or the world's largest feather pillow: so conveniently placed; a spare on standby...

And so Austria smiled, a gorgeous sincere smile, and it's too bad Prussia couldn't see it.

The 'bastard husband' stood silent, and shivering. Waiting for a damn answer, or for Austria to get his ass to the thermostat! Blast the damn heater!! Something. Either. Or hell, maybe both. A roaring fire, and a God damn electric heat was needed to warm this frigid place.

And both men sighed, yet Prussia's sigh was definitely more akin to a grumble, while Austria's was more akin to his present tone of amusement. His delight at making it home safe, for the former sense of comfort was returned to him now, to realize: Prussia was at least alive and well, and in need of warming. In need of Austria's help. And maybe it was nice to feel needed...to feel useful, and not used. Not married for the sake of making Prussia's life full, or due to Austria being _the closest warm body who wasn't Prussia's own brother_ , as Austria had feared, but maybe...just maybe...Prussia would be happy to have him, and to hold him, and to be here. In Austria's house, frigid or not.

"But I do think you're right," Austria said, still smiling. "I do think we're in for a chilly night," and he stepped forward, reaching out, to place his hands atop Prussia's hands: rubbing up and down his husband's arms, as if hoping to help warm him until someone turned on the heater or started a fire. "Maybe even another storm," he remarked, and he shivered too, having felt a certain static-like surge in the air.

Perhaps the personifications of countries are attuned to sensing their own impending inclement weather; the hair on the back of Austria's neck prickling at his skin. "But if you want to build a fire later," he said, "I won't try and stop you."

And Austria shook his head 'no', as if regretting his words; as if wanting to make his tone softer; his home more welcoming, and his air more agreeable; his stance more approachable; himself more lovable.

"I mean...if you want to build one later," Austria said, "maybe it _would_ be nice."

***

Austria scurried off, to turn on the heater, leaving Prussia alone in the dark entranceway.

'So what if that jerk ended the honeymoon early?' Prussia thought, removing the sunglasses from his head, setting them to a nearby table, and Gilbird followed. Ready to chew the glasses beyond recognition or repair.

And Prussia ran his fingers through his silver hair, to skim it down along his forehead again, and this wouldn't be so bad. To be home, in Austria's home. Who needed hotel beds, anyway? Sharing a bed where strangers had slept. Sharing the sheets, and wallowing in their germs, and no thank you. A quiet and clean (or at least decent, if not immaculate) home was a nice place to come to, after an exhausting first day of civilian status. Married and honeymooned, if not showered and sexed, and no, this was a nice enough break. A nice enough way to punctuate the rushed ceremony, and the uneventful honeymoon. This was a nice enough place, to grow old, and share a home with a man who would never grow old. To someday die in the arms of a man who would never taste death.

The two newlyweds soon met again, on the outskirts of the dark entranceway, and Prussia eased his way into a better-lit space; thanks to thin curtains gracing windows with their shutters thrown-open outside; wandering about the living room he had visited many times over the years. Recent years, post-Berlin Wall, and the decorations were all the same: pre-dating Austria's full return to nationhood, yet post-WWII; that odd and brief time in which Austria had returned home, from living with Germany, but before he could stand completely on his own again; when Austria was bound to a wheelchair, and spent his time, weakened by the war, tied to his lonesomeness, and left to his own devices; a man who rolled about hardwood floors, hanging pictures on the wall, not at normal eye-level, but at a child's eye-level, or so it seemed. At first glance, you'd think Kugelmugel had decorated this room. The young boy, or small boy, at least; the micro-nation who lived in a ball, and spent his days painting; crying for art, and providing company. With Austria, Kugelmugel was a quiet companion at times. He'd sit in the floor, and paint, and listen to Mr. Austria play the piano. Yet another child for Austria to tend to. But during the end of the Cold War era, when Austria felt weak or was under the weather, the chair was returned to the downstairs, and the small boy's hands pushed the grown man's chair. The reins were handed over to the youth, as it were, as the Germanic nation continued to thrive; not punished, but given a chance to 'redecorate', to reorganize and recompose himself, after taking less blame for a war than his ex-housemate, and his future (now-present) husband.

God knows Germany and Prussia took the lion's share of the liability, for the Allies deemed Austria a victim. _Tugged along for the ride._ The Allies also deemed Prussia 'the root of evil', and culpable of damaging Europe one too many times, so hence his dissolution.

But unlike the Allies, God saw a bigger picture, or in this case, an extended plan for Prussia. To become East Germany -- the DDR, or GDR -- and to be walled-away from his little brother, and his future (now-present) husband.

The child, however, sprung forth in that era, and it was a strange thing, really, to see how much the micro-nation looked like Prussia and Austria. Hell, based on appearances, you'd think he was their love child! Sharing Austria's sad, kittenish features, and violet eyes. Hair akin to Prussia's, in color; white or silver tresses worn in long plaits, much like the braids Liechtenstein once donned. She cut them off, though, to closer resemble Switzerland: her sibling, or perhaps, her _other_ 'parent'. (How on earth Austria was capable of 'producing' what looked to be his children along with the influence of other male nations is yet another mystery to humans, but as stated, so are the actual personifications! Living-creatures who look human, and act human, and surely they were human; most of them immortal. But ah, then there was Prussia...)

"You still like this stuff?" he asked, as he fingered at a pink lace doily on a tabletop. An end table, with a black rotary phone, and a floral-printed lamp. "Looks like a girl decorated in here! - A grandma!!" Prussia laughed.

"It's just...I like old things," said Austria, as he followed Prussia's lead about the room. "I like you," he joked.

Prussia smiled, and lifted a gold bell from a shelf. "Oh, you do," he said, and he rang the bell, shaking it in Austria's general direction.

"Every time a bell rings..." Prussia mused, quoting a beloved Christmas film. A movie they (who exactly are 'they'?) air on the TV every holiday season: when people need it most. A film about a man who can't see the bigger picture in life; a man who never wanted to get married, but ah, why not? Why not settle down, and get a house, and fill it with kids; adding a burden to your existence, and a weight to your shoulders, though surely it adds a pleasant weight to your heart.

Austria blushed over the 'joke' -- the confession -- and smiled in return.

Despite deviating from the script, he finished his husband's line:

_Every time a bell rings..._

"A Prussian gets his wings."

***

The newlyweds found their way upstairs, making simple chitchat prompted by the old paintings and portraits hung throughout the hall, until they reached a small guest room which Austria dubbed Prussia's room.

"You can sleep here, when you want to be alone," Austria said, once standing in the center of the drab room. His chin raised as if making an official announcement; as if concluding a speech in the midst of a world meeting. "I think it's important," he continued, "for couples to keep their own personal space. To retain a semblance of independence."

Prussia loomed near the bed, and tossed back the covers, as if inspecting the color of the sheets.

"You learn that from your other marriages??" he asked, turning up his nose, and cringing at the paisley-print. "Looks like throw-up," he added, commenting on the bedding of the queen-size mattress, with its dark iron headboard. Cold metal, and dull colors, and...

"I hate this," Prussia said.

He peered about the brown walls, and brown floors, and everything was wooden and bland.

"But I thought I was going to sleep with you," Prussia finally said, or hell, maybe he asked it; maybe he whimpered it a bit. A kicked-puppy look on his face. "I mean," he sort of laughed, "not _sleep with you_ , sleep with you," and he did laugh. "But that too," he smirked, but God did it fade quick. "I just thought...we'd share a bed, Fussy Britches."

And there was one of those unkind pet names again. Surely Austria wasn't getting off on the right foot, by welcoming Prussia into his home, only to stow him away in some colorless guest room -- some bleak den for the sake of _splendid isolation_ \-- an enclave in Austria's house: far away from the master bedroom of the Little Master; the Young Master who preferred to sleep alone most nights. On his own precious sheets. In his own undisturbed slumber. Not plagued by nightmares, despite being locked into his own private Hell for some stretch of time. A wheelchair stashed in the attic above them. And a closet filled with old coats, and old clothes, and old pants, and random pairs of underwear wedged into corners and crevices; blanketing the shelves...but also, the letters 'From Prussia, With Love' he kept on the top shelf. Along with Spain's wedding ring. Along with mementos from his union with Hungary, for Austria was a sentimental man in private. He was a softer kind of man, who wanted to sleep alone, should he not be able to sleep at all. Should he want to roll over, and cry in the night. Should he want to climb from his bed, and peer about the room, and ask his shadow, 'Just what is the point of it anymore?' But surely he didn't ask. Surely he didn't think it. Surely being a country was rewarding? Surely immortality was comforting.

And surely having a husband sleep next to you every night wasn't a burden, now was it? To be held every night, _like a hero in a love story_. To have Prussia in his arms, or to be in Prussia's arms, or...

Austria shook his head 'no', and sighed. "I didn't mean to say we could _never_..." he replied with a nervous albeit soft smile. "I just meant...most nights, you can sleep here, and..." he shrugged, "you can visit me, sometimes."

"Ha!" Prussia shouted. "Well aren't you Mr. Generous?! I'll be sure to write you a thank-you note, while I'm keeping my diary tonight!"

He threw the covers back into place, and rushed to the door; exiting into the hallway, and stomping downstairs.

Austria chased after him, or tried to. Down the flight of stairs, he ran his fingers along the banister, and said, near breathless, "You don't have your diaries here yet, Prussia, but..." clutching to his chest; to the borrowed blue shirt which smelt of Germany's house, and of Prussia in general. Of East _and_ West. Of their fresh laundry washed and dried daily, and not of the clothesline; the 'Let the sun dry your clothes, to save money on electricity' scent of which Austria's clothes always smelt; he stopped upon a step, mid-way through flight, and said, "Maybe tonight, you _can_ write a thank-you note," and he almost laughed at his line. "I never said you had to sleep in the guest room _tonight_."

Prussia peered up from the foot of the stairs; from the dark and dusty entranceway. "If you meant that," he said, "I guess when we're done, you'll expect me to write a thank-you note the whole size of a novel!" he seethed. "Well if you do, I'll throw it at your head!!"

Austria face paled, and his kittenish features appeared more amplified, though surely it was sincere. "Please, Prussia," he said, shaking his head 'no' again; half-pouting, and half-smiling, as if embarrassed. "I was just..." and he hesitated, hoping to choose his words more carefully; not wanting to say, he was just 'scared'.

As if defeated, Austria glanced to Prussia, and held back tears.

"I just _thought_ you were fixing to leave," Austria said.

For a moment, Prussia studied his new spouse: his old enemy-turned-friend. A man standing on his own two legs again. His own two feet, and Austria was all out of breath, and it was cute, really; the way Austria put himself through physical strain just to catch-up with Prussia. Just to play the role of 'the sweet little husband'. Thinking Prussia would leave him...

Prussia grinned, and retreated to the front door of the house; unlatching it, and throwing it open; stepping onto the small square of porch, he lifted one of the bags packed by Italy and Germany, and he motioned towards it with his chin.

"I was just getting my clothes," Prussia said, and boy, was his tone something straight from all those movies he had watched; from all those books he had read. And surely no novel-sized thank-you note would need to be written; not after one husband lets his spouse sleep next to him; whether it was with him, or WITH him, or...whatever the two had in mind.

"Besides!" Prussia said gleaming; boasting a silly look as if thinking Austria was dumb for posing such a thought, but ah, Prussia was touched. "I just got here!" he said. "I carried your ass in here," he teased. "So why on earth would I already want to leave you?"

And Prussia shook his head, and no, he didn't understand. He asked the questions, and Austria never gave proper answers. The joke to the punch line was Prussia's own ill-devised plan, so at least he knew the set-up, and that's what he bought for himself. The grave he dug. And the man on the stairs was in an odd state, not of regret, but of confusion; stricken by the failure of his well-meant intentions; cursing his reliance on using tricks and habits from his past marriages to make this new marriage work as best it could. For Prussia's sake. For the sake of reminding him, all the nice things he once wrote in letters. Knowing the destination, but heading in the wrong direction. To live happily ever after in a frigid home. To live happily ever after, with tired bones, and empty stomachs, and now a bird with a stomachache from eating too much plastic. The bell rung, and the door re-shut, and Prussia stood on the death of the threshold with Austria peering down at him.

"I'll make supper for you," Austria offered, as if hoping to steer the ship back into peaceful water. "We can pretend it's a new home, can't we?" And he rolled his eyes at his own silly idea; descending the remainder of the stairs, and as he reached the bottom step, he wilted there. Sitting with his head in his hands, and you'd think he just ran a marathon! Exhausted, and out of breath; out of answers. "Pretend it's a new kitchen, and I'll even wear a frilly apron, all right? If that's what you want..."

"Like a good little wife, huh?" Prussia scoffed. "You're trying too hard, Austria," he said, approaching the bottom step. He placed his hand atop Austria's head, and ran his fingers through brunette waves, "You can cook supper naked for all I care..." Prussia said, and gave a sudden tug to the haircurl; jerking hard at Austria's Mariazell.

Prussia smirked, "In fact, I might even prefer it."

He let-go the haircurl, and knelt in front of his weary husband. "But I tell you what," Prussia began, "if you cook supper for me tonight, I'll cook it for you every night for the rest of your...well, for the rest of my life, anyway," and he forced a grin. "And if you quit bossing me around, you know, maybe I'll carry you all over this house! You don't have to ask, Austria. Don't ask, because you're never grateful. Just let me do what I want for you, and then I won't have to be pissed at you afterwards. - Deal?"

Austria nodded. "Sounds fair enough," he said. "But I'm going to do what I want for you, too, whether you ask or not. I mean, you shouldn't get mad at me when I'm trying my best."

Prussia stood, and groaned; his hands pressed to the small of his back, as he stretched himself straight; groaned as if he were bent and unbent, and folded and unfolded one too many times in the day; a worn-out accordion. "You do whatever you want, Kitten Face," he said. "You already do," he smiled. "Crawling into bed with me. The little stunt in the dressing room. Buckling my seatbelt this afternoon...I'm not stupid, you know."

Austria sighed. "I never said you were."

"You say it all the time!!" Prussia shouted, but then he laughed. And it went on like that; the two bartering for meals, and for heat. The two bartering for who would do what for whom. And the two sat and stood in the foyer; at the foot of the stairs, a few paces away from the threshold which could curse a new couple if the bride wasn't carried over it. But what if there was no bride, and only two grooms?

"I'm going to go take a shower, Austria, and when I get back downstairs, you better have a whole feast for me!" Prussia said, then narrowed his eyes, feigning a threat, "And if you don't, I _will_ leave you," he teased. "I'll leave and get take-out food."

Prussia leaned down and kissed Austria's forehead; his eyes open, and peering at the red rose, and wondering, if only for a brief moment, just where did his white carnation escape to? Maybe Gilbird ate it, and 'God, I sure hope not,' Prussia thought.

Glancing over to the bird on the small dusty table. Lying on his back, and kicking his little legs as if he were pedaling an invisible unicycle.

"You shouldn't have filled up on my sunglasses," Prussia said to Gilbird; scolding him, before announcing, "Austria's going to make a feast for us! A feast!! - And he'll be completely naked! - I repeat, completely naked!!"

Austria swatted Prussia's leg. "I never said I was cooking supper naked..." he mumbled.

Prussia turned back to his husband, and winked. "You wear your frilly little apron, then, and...I won't complain how you can't cook as well as I can."

Austria reached out his hand in hopes of Prussia grabbing hold; to help him rise from the step. Like a prince in need of assistance. Stepping from his throne, and Prussia took the hint; took Austria's hand, and helped him to standing.

"And I won't complain," Austria said, as he rose, and faced Prussia, "if you let me sleep all day tomorrow."

"Sure, Kitten Face," said Prussia. "You can sleep 'til next Tuesday for all I care." And he wrapped his arm about Austria's waist. "Hell, you may need to!" he grinned. "You cook supper, and I'll visit you tonight, like a ghost in a Christmas Carol, and then you can sleep and sleep and sleep," Prussia yammered, his words growing softer, as he leaned in closer, "Doctor Schnitzels's orders! Plenty of bed-rest..." he whispered, "I don't really give a damn," and he kissed his husband, almost as if delivering the sentiment from some unseeable depth of his subconscious. Not 'fully' awake, and not at all asleep; _just tired for some reason_...as if this were a dream, and quick! Nobody wake him. Don't make a sound. Lips pressed to his husband's lips now, and the two were content, in the dark foyer. Content to be underneath a shared roof to an old home. Content to kiss, and be held, and the blessed house felt warmer now. Silent, except for the hum of the electric heat, and the wind blowing outside. Rome peering through the thin curtains of the living room window. Just to make sure, this rushed marriage was all working out somehow. Funny how a visiting empire can dictate the weather. Funny how the fight on their wedding night took place in a storm. Funny how the sky was clear for their trip to Vienna, but a snowstorm seemed to be looming, once the air between the two turned chilly, and...hell, maybe tomorrow it would be sunny again. Maybe tonight would be record-breaking heat!

But maybe...they'd soon forget this nice moment, and go back to bartering and angered agreements; maybe frilly aprons make a meal taste better. Maybe Prussia was a much better kisser than Austria thought he'd be, and it was surprising, really, how someone so God damn cocky could walk the walk, and talk the talk, and 'A ghost in a Christmas Carol, indeed.'

\-- The Ghost of Prussia Past. The Ghost of Civilian Present? The Ghost of Married Future!

Austria's mind wandered in circles, assuming Prussia would soon pull away, but he didn't. Not wanting his shower, nor his supper, but wanting Austria in his arms. And Austria wondered just where did he keep a frilly apron? In the attic, or in the bedroom closet, or...in what dusty corner of his house could he find such a silly thing??

Anything to make Prussia happy. Except 'completely naked'. No, not that. Surely it would be unsanitary! Unheard of. What if he burned his bare stomach while frying potatoes? Grease flying from the pan, and a hot oily spatula dripping liquid onto his thighs, and...Austria broke the kiss with wide eyes, and a shocked look.

Prussia cocked his head, and laughed. "What's wrong with you all of a sudden?" And his lips puckered while sulking. "You didn't like it? - But I even shut my eyes this time!" He raised his hand as if proclaiming his innocence with a boy scout's honor. "No peeking, I swear it."

"Yes, I know," said Austria, his words trailing off. "I was just...thinking of things I shouldn't, I suppose."

"Wine glass treatments, and drum solos?" Prussia asked.

At least now Austria's way of thinking was coming around to Prussia's daydreams. Odd math equations, and wilting planes, and Rome smirked at the window. His nose pressed against it, and he waved to Old Fritz to join him. Scoundrels, the both of them. Watching two men kiss in the wake of their honeymoon. The funeral of marital bliss, and if the headboard to Austria's bed was a tombstone, surely it would soon read, 'Here lies two men who never asked for this. Here lies two men who never expected this. To be in each other's arms, after centuries of hatefulness. To make love to one another, as if the wars between them never existed.' Assuming it would all fit. A lengthy epitaph.

"You go ahead and think whatever you want to," Prussia said. "You act like it's a bad thing!" And he turned back to the threshold to collect his packed-bag; to head-off to the shower; to the small bathroom adjacent to his new bedroom. A recycled guest room. A glorified 'final resting place'; a small and drab place to stash a man who felt he was no longer useful, unless he could at least be a decent husband: hoping Austria would let him.

And so Prussia shrugged; adding, "Or maybe to _you_ , it is...but...don't all married couples act like this?"

He didn't know, and if anyone could tell him, surely Austria, of all people, could.

But Austria didn't answer, and stood silent, ready to lie and say he was only trying to decide what to cook for supper; trying to recall the inventory of his pantry, based on memory, and what he could prepare in the time it would take for Prussia to shower and dress. And he wanted to lie, and repress whatever he was thinking or wanting or feeling, because it was one thing to let go, and be close to someone in a foreign place; be close to an old enemy-turned-friend in a dressing room, or hotel room, but in his own home? The one Prussia had visited many times before, and usually sat sulking on the couch, telling West he was ready to leave, and why couldn't they have gone to Cute Italy's house instead? Complaining about the food, and ranting about the mess and the dust and the clutter. - It was strange to Austria, to have Prussia not as a guest, but as a spouse, and a housemate on a semi-permanent basis. And God, and Rome, and the real Fritz knows: Austria never had luck with such things...

"Never mind," said Prussia. "You do what you want, and you think what you want, all right?" and he nodded, slow and stern, as if Austria should damn well agree. "And I'm just here to fill in the gaps."

Knowing Austria for centuries; knowing Austria would never change his ways nor his decor, nor his behavior; knowing Austria would never warm his demeanor, and had to be convinced to warm his home!

And no, Austria didn't need permission to think or not think anything; he didn't want to explain how married couples act, and he didn't need Prussia period, or so Prussia assumed.

Or maybe Prussia knew, and the flight of stairs wasn't as easy to climb this time. Going upstairs alone, with a bag in hand, and Gilbird spit out a broken bit of plastic, atop the dusty table, as Austria ventured to the kitchen. In search of a frilly apron. In hopes of making a meal for his husband. In the continued hope of making him feel more at home. As if the meal itself would say what Austria couldn't or wouldn't say:

'I'm glad you're here. - You're welcomed here! - I hope you don't regret this.'


End file.
